Title: The Ned M'Keown Stories - Traits And Stories Of The Irish Peasantry, The Works of - William Carleton, Volume Three
Author: Carleton, William
Language: English
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THE WORKS

OF

WILLIAM CARLETON.

VOLUME III.


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[Illustration: Titlepage]


TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY


CONTENTS:

     Ned M’Keown.

     The Three Tasks.

     Shane Fadh’s Wedding.

     Larry M’Farland’s Wake.

     The Battle Of The Factions.



1881.



TRAITS AND STORIES

OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY.



INTRODUCTION.

It will naturally be expected, upon a new issue of works which may be
said to treat exclusively of a people who form such an important and
interesting portion of the empire as the Irish peasantry do, that the
author should endeavor to prepare the minds of his readers--especially
those of the English and Scotch--for understanding more clearly their
general character, habits of thought, and modes of feeling, as they
exist and are depicted in the subsequent volume. This is a task which
the author undertakes more for the sake of his country than himself; and
he rejoices that the demand for the present edition puts it in his power
to aid in removing many absurd prejudices which have existed for time
immemorial against his countrymen.

It is well known that the character of an Irishman has been hitherto
uniformly associated with the idea of something unusually ridiculous,
and that scarcely anything in the shape of language was supposed to
proceed from his lips, but an absurd congeries of brogue and blunder.
The habit of looking upon him in a ludicrous light has been so strongly
impressed upon the English mind, that no opportunity has ever been
omitted of throwing him into an attitude of gross and overcharged
caricature, from which you might as correctly estimate his intellectual
strength and moral proportions, as you would the size of a man from his
evening shadow. From the immortal bard of Avon down to the writers
of the present day, neither play nor farce has ever been presented to
Englishmen, in which, when an irishman is introduced, he is not drawn as
a broad, grotesque blunderer, every sentence he speaks involving a
bull, and every act the result of headlong folly, or cool but unstudied
effrontery. I do not remember an instance in which he acts upon the
stage any other part than that of the buffoon of the piece uttering
language which, wherever it may have been found, was at all events
never heard in Ireland, unless upon the boards of a theatre. As for the
Captain O’Cutters, O’Blunders, and Dennis Bulgrudderies, of the English
stage, they never had existence except in the imagination of those who
were as ignorant of the Irish people as they were of their language and
feelings. Even Sheridan himself was forced to pander to this erroneous
estimate and distorted conception of our character; for, after all, Sir
Lucius O’Trigger was his Irishman but not Ireland’s Irishman. I know
that several of my readers may remind me of Sir Boyle Roche, whose bulls
have become not only notorious, but proverbial. It is well known now,
however, and was when he made them, that they were studied bulls,
resorted to principally for the purpose of putting the government and
opposition sides of the Irish House of Commons into good humor with each
other, which they never failed to do--thereby, on more occasions than
one, probably, preventing the effusion of blood, and the loss of life,
among men who frequently decided even their political differences by the
sword or pistol.

That the Irish either were or are a people remarkable for making bulls
or blunders, is an imputation utterly unfounded, and in every sense
untrue. The source of this error on the part of our neighbors is,
however, readily traced. The language of our people has been for
centuries, and is up to the present day, in a transition state. The
English tongue is gradually superseding the Irish. In my own native
place, for instance, there is not by any means so much Irish spoken now,
as there was about twenty or five-and-twenty years ago. This fact, then,
will easily account for the ridicule which is, and I fear ever will be,
unjustly heaped upon those who are found to use a language which they do
not properly understand. In the early periods of communication between
the countries, when they stood in a hostile relation to each other, and
even long afterwards, it was not surprising that “the wild Irishman” who
expressed himself with difficulty, and often impressed the idiom of his
own language upon one with which he was not familiar, should incur,
in the opinion of those who were strongly prejudiced against him, the
character of making the bulls and blunders attributed to him. Such
was the fact, and such the origin of this national slander upon his
intellect,--a slander which, like every other, originates from the
prejudice of those who were unacquainted with the quickness and
clearness of thought that in general characterizes the language of our
people. At this moment there is no man acquainted with the inhabitants
of the two countries, who does not know, that where the English
is vernacular in Ireland, it is spoken with far more purity, and
grammatical precision than is to be heard beyond the Channel. Those,
then, who are in the habit of defending what are termed our bulls, or of
apologizing for them, do us injustice; and Miss Edgeworth herself, when
writing an essay upon the subject, wrote an essay upon that which does
not, and never did exist. These observations, then, easily account for
the view of us which has always been taken in the dramatic portion of
English literature. There the Irishman was drawn in every instance
as the object of ridicule, and consequently of contempt; for it is
incontrovertibly true, that the man whom you laugh at you will soon
despise.

In every point of view this was wrong, but principally in a political
one. At that time England and Englishmen knew very little of Ireland,
and, consequently, the principal opportunities afforded them of
appreciating our character were found on the stage. Of course, it was
very natural that the erroneous estimate of us which they formed there
should influence them everywhere else. We cannot sympathize with, and
laugh at, the same object at the same time; and if the Irishman found
himself undeservedly the object of coarse and unjust ridicule, it was
not very unnatural that he should requite it with a prejudice against
the principles and feelings of Englishmen, quite as strong as that which
was entertained against himself. Had this ridicule been confined to
the stage, or directed at us in the presence of those who had other and
better opportunities of knowing us, it would have been comparatively
harmless. But this was not the case. It passed from the stage into the
recesses of private life, wrought itself into the feelings until it
became a prejudice, and the Irishman was consequently looked upon, and
treated, as being made up of absurdity and cunning,--a compound of knave
and fool, fit only to be punished for his knavery, or laughed at for
his folly. So far, therefore, that portion of English literature
which attempted to describe the language and habits of Irishmen, was
unconsciously creating an unfriendly feeling between the two countries,
a feeling which, I am happy to say, is fast disappearing, and which
only requires that we should have a full and fair acquaintance with each
other in order to be removed for ever.

At present, indeed, their mutual positions, civil, commercial, and
political, are very different from what they were half a century ago,
or even at a more recent period. The progress of science, and the
astonishing improvements in steam and machinery, have so completely
removed the obstructions which impeded their intercourse, that the
two nations can now scarcely be considered as divided. As a natural
consequence, their knowledge of each other has improved; and, as will
always happen with generous people, they begin to see that the one was
neither knave or fool, nor the other a churl or a boor. Thus has
mutual respect arisen from mutual intercourse, and those who hitherto
approached each other with distrust are beginning to perceive, that in
spite of political or religious prejudices, no matter how stimulated,
the truthful experience of life will in the event create nothing but
good-will and confidence between the countries.

Other causes, however, led to this;--causes which in every state of
society exercise a quick and powerful influence over the minds of
men:--I allude to literature.

When the Irishman was made to stand forth as the butt of ridicule to his
neighbors, the first that undertook his vindication was Maria Edgeworth.
During her day, the works of no writer made a more forcible impression
upon the circles of fashionable life in England, if we except the
touching and inimitable Melodies of my countryman, Thomas Moore. After
a lapse of some years, these two were followed by many others, who
stood forth as lofty and powerful exponents of the national heart and
intellect. Who can forget the melancholy but indignant reclamations
of John Banim,--the dark and touching power of Gerald Griffin,--or the
unrivalled wit and irresistible drollery of Samuel Lover? Nor can I omit
remarking, that amidst the array of great talents to which I allude,
the genius of our female writers bore off, by the free award of public
opinion, some of the brightest wreaths of Irish literature. It would be
difficult indeed, in any country, to name three women who have done
more in setting right the character of Ireland and her people, whilst
exhibiting at the same time the manifestations of high genius, than Miss
Edgeworth, Lady Morgan, and Mrs. Hall. About the female creations ol
the last-named lady, especially, there is a touching charm, blending
the graceful and the pensive, which reminds us of a very general but
peculiar style of Irish beauty, where the lineaments of the face combine
at once both the melancholy and the mirthful in such a manner, that
their harmony constitutes the unchangeable but ever-varying tenderness
of the expression.

That national works like these, at once so healthful and so true,
produced by those who knew the country, and exhibiting Irishmen not
as the blundering buffoons of the English stage, but as men capable
of thinking clearly and feeling deeply--that such works, I say, should
enable a generous people, as the English undoubtedly are, to divest
themselves of the prejudices which they had so long entertained against
us, is both natural and gratifying. Those who achieved this great
object, or aided in achieving it, have unquestionably rendered services
of a most important nature to both the countries, as well as to
literature in general.

Yet, whilst the highly gifted individuals whom I have named succeeded
in making their countrymen respected, there was one circumstance which,
nothwithstanding every exhibition of their genius and love of country,
still remained as a reproach against our character as a nation.
For nearly a century we were completely at the mercy of our British
neighbors, who probably amused themselves at our expense with the
greater license, and a more assured sense of impunity, inasmuch as
they knew that we were utterly destitute of a national literature.
Unfortunately the fact could not be disputed. For the last half century,
to come down as far as we can, Ireland, to use a plain metaphor, instead
of producing her native intellect for home consumption, was forced to
subsist upon the scanty supplies which could be procured from the sister
kingdom. This was a reproach which added great strength to the general
prejudice against us.

A nation may produce one man or ten men of eminence, but if they cannot
succeed in impressing their mind upon the spirit and intellect of their
own country, so as to create in her a taste for literature or science,
no matter how highly they may be appreciated by strangers, they have not
reached the exalted purposes of genius. To make this more plain I shall
extend the metaphor a little farther. During some of the years of Irish
famine, such were the unhappy circumstances of the country, that she was
exporting provisions of every description in most prodigal abundance,
which the generosity of England was sending back again for our support.
So was it with literature, our men and women of genius uniformly carried
their talents to the English market, whilst we labored at home under all
the dark privations of a literary famine.

In truth, until within the last ten or twelve years, an Irish author
never thought of publishing in his own country, and the consequence was
that our literary men followed the example of our great landlords; they
became absentees, and drained the country of its intellectual wealth
precisely as the others exhausted it of its rents.

Thus did Ireland stand in the singular anomaly of adding some of her
most distinguished names to the literature of Great Britain, whilst she
herself remained incapable of presenting anything to the world beyond a
school-book or a pamphlet; and even of the latter it is well-known that
if the subject of it were considered important, and its author a man
of any talent or station in society, it was certain to be published in
London.

Precisely in this state was the country when the two first volumes of
the “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry” were given to the public
by the house of Messrs. Gurry and Co., of Sackville Street. Before they
appeared, their author, in consequence of their originating from an
Irish press, entertained no expectation that they would be read, or
excite any interest whatever in either England or Scotland. He was not,
however, without a strong confidence that notwithstanding the wild
and uncleared state of his own country at the time, so far as native
literature was concerned, his two little pioneers would work their
way with at least moderate success. He felt conscious that everything
depicted in them was true, and that by those who were acquainted with
the manners, and language, and feelings of the people, they would sooner
or later be recognized as faithful delineations of Irish life. In
this confidence the event justified him; for not only were his volumes
stamped with an immediate popularity at home, where they could be best
appreciated, but awarded a very gratifying position in the literature
of the day by the unanimous and not less generous verdict of the English
and Scotch critics.

Thus it was that the publication of two unpretending volumes, written by
a peasant’s son, established an important and gratifying fact--that
our native country, if without a literature at the time, was at least
capable of appreciating, and willing to foster the humble exertions
of such as endeavored to create one. Nor was this all; for so far as
resident authors were concerned, it was now clearly established that
an Irish writer could be successful at home without the necessity of
appearing under the name and sanction of the great London or Edinburgh
booksellers.

The rapid sale and success of the first series encouraged the author to
bring out a second, which he did, but with a different bookseller. The
spirit of publishing was now beginning to extend, and the talent of the
country to put itself in motion. The popularity of the second effort
surpassed that of the first, and the author had the gratification of
knowing that the generosity of public feeling and opinion accorded him
a still higher position than before, as did the critics of the day,
without a dissentient voice. Still, as in the case of his first effort,
he saw with honest pride that his own country and his countrymen placed
the highest value upon his works, because they best understood them.

About this time the literary taste of the metropolis began to feel the
first symptoms of life. As yet, however, they were very faint. Two or
three periodicals were attempted, and though of very considerable merit,
and conducted by able men, none of them, I believe, reached a year’s
growth. The “Dublin Literary Gazette,” the “National Magazine,” the
“Dublin Monthly Magazine,” and the “Dublin University Review,” all
perished in their infancy--not, however, because they were unworthy of
success, but because Ireland was not then what she is now fast becoming,
a reading, and consequently a thinking, country. To every one of these
the author contributed, and he has the satisfaction of being able to say
that there has been no publication projected purely for the advancement
of literature in his own country, to which he has not given the aid of
his pen, such as it was, and this whether he received remuneration or
not. Indeed, the consciousness that the success of his works had been
the humble means of inciting others to similar exertion in their own
country, and of thus giving the first impulse to our literature, is one
which has on his part created an enthusiastic interest in it which will
only die with him.

Notwithstanding the failure of the periodicals just mentioned, it
was clear that the intellect of the country was beginning to feel its
strength and put forth its power. A national spirit that rose above the
narrow distinctions of creed and party began to form itself, and in the
first impulses of its early enthusiasm a periodical was established,
which it is only necessary to name--the “Dublin University Magazine”--a
work unsurpassed by any magazine of the day; and which, moreover,
without ever departing from its principles, has been as a bond of union
for literary men of every class, who have from time to time enriched its
pages by their contributions. It has been, and is, a neutral spot in a
country where party feeling runs so high, on which the Roman Catholic
Priest and the Protestant Parson, the Whig, the Tory, and the Radical,
divested of their respective prejudices, can meet in an amicable spirit.
I mention these things with great satisfaction, for it is surely a
gratification to know that literature, in a country which has been so
much distracted as Ireland, is progressing in a spirit of noble candor
and generosity, which is ere long likely to produce a most salutary
effect among the educated classes of all parties, and consequently among
those whom they influence. The number, ability, and importance of the
works which have issued from the Dublin press within the last eight or
ten years, if they could be enumerated here, would exhibit the rapid
progress of the national mind, and satisfy the reader that Ireland in
a few years will be able to sustain a native literature as lofty and
generous, and beneficial to herself, as any other country in the world
can boast of.

This hasty sketch of its progress I felt myself called upon to give,
in order that our neighbors may know what we have done, and learn to
respect us accordingly; and, if the truth must be told, from a principle
of honest pride, arising from the position which our country holds, and
is likely to hold, as an intellectual nation.

Having disposed of this topic, I come now to one of not less importance
as being connected with the other,--the condition and character of the
peasantry of Ireland.

It maybe necessary, however, before entering upon this topic, to give
my readers some satisfactory assurance that the subject is one which
I ought well to understand, not only from my humble position in early
life, and my uninterrupted intercourse with the people as one of
themselves, until I had reached the age of twenty-two years, but from
the fact of having bestowed upon it my undivided and most earnest
attention ever since I left the dark mountains and green vales of my
native Tyrone, and began to examine human life and manners as a citizen
of the world. As it is admitted, also, that there exists no people whose
character is so anomalous as that of the Irish, and consequently so
difficult to be understood, especially by strangers, it becomes a
still more appropriate duty on my part to give to the public, proofs
sufficiently valid, that I come to a subject of such difficulty with
unusual advantages on my side, and that, consequently, my exhibitions of
Irish peasant life, in its most comprehensive sense, may be relied on
as truthful and authentic. For this purpose, it will be necessary that
I should give a brief sketch of my own youth, early station in society,
and general education, as the son of an honest, humble peasant.

My father, indeed, was a very humble man, but, in consequence of his
unaffected piety and stainless integrity of principle, he was held in
high esteem by all who knew him, no matter what their rank in life might
be. When the state of education in Ireland during his youth and that of
my mother is considered, it will not be a matter of surprise that what
they did receive was very limited. It would be difficult, however, if
not impossible, to find two persons in their lowly station so highly
and singularly gifted. My father possessed a memory not merely great or
surprising, but absolutely astonishing. He could repeat nearly the whole
of the Old and New Testament by heart, and was, besides, a living index
to almost every chapter and verse you might wish to find in it. In all
other respects, too, his memory was equally amazing. My native place
is a spot rife with old legends, tales, traditions, customs, and
superstitions; so that in my early youth, even beyond the walls of
my own humble roof, they met me in every direction. It was at home,
however, and from my father’s lips in particular, that they were
perpetually sounding in my ears. In fact, his memory was a perfect
storehouse, and a rich one, of all that the social antiquary, the man of
letters, the poet, or the musician, would consider valuable. As a teller
of old tales, legends, and historical anecdotes he was unrivalled, and
his stock of them was inexhaustible. He spoke the Irish and English
languages with nearly equal fluency. With all kinds of charms, old
ranns, or poems, old prophecies, religious superstitions, tales of
pilgrims, miracles, and pilgrimages, anecdotes of blessed priests
and friars, revelations from ghosts and fairies, was he thoroughly
acquainted. And so strongly were all these impressed upon my mind, by
frequent repetition on his part, and the indescribable delight they
gave me on mine, that I have hardly ever since heard, during a tolerably
enlarged intercourse with Irish society, both educated and uneducated,
with the antiquary, the scholar, or the humble senachie--any single
tradition, usage, or legend, that, as far as I can at present recollect,
was perfectly new to me or unheard before, in some similar or cognate
dress. This is certainly saying much; but I believe I may assert with
confidence that I could produce, in attestation of its truth, the
dairies of Petrie, Sir W. Betham, Ferguson, and O’Donovan, the most
distinguished antiquaries, both of social usages and otherwise, that
ever Ireland produced. What rendered this, besides, of such peculiar
advantage to me in after life, as a literary man, was, that I heard them
as often in the Irish language as in the English, if not oftener, in
circumstance which enabled me in my writings to transfer the genius, the
idiomatic peculiarity and conversational spirit of the one language
into the other, precisely as the people themselves do in their dialogue,
whenever the heart or imagination happens to be moved by the darker or
better passions.

Having thus stated faithfully, without adding or diminishing, a portion,
and a portion only, of what I owe to one parent, I cannot overlook the
debt of gratitude which is due to the memory of the other.

My mother, whose name was Kelly--Mary Kelly--possessed the sweetest and
most exquisite of human voices. In her early life, I have often been
told by those who had heard her sing, that any previous intimation of
her presence at a wake, dance, or other festive occasion, was sure to
attract crowds of persons, many from a distance of several miles, in
order to hear from her lips the touching old airs of their country. No
sooner was it known that she would attend any such meeting, than the
fact spread throughout the neighborhood like wild-fire, and the people
flocked from all parts to hear her, just as the fashionable world
do now, when the name of some eminent songstress is announced in the
papers; with this difference, that upon such occasions the voice of the
one falls only upon the ear, whilst that of the other sinks deeply into
the heart. She was not so well acquainted with the English tongue as my
father, although she spoke it with sufficient ease for all the purposes
of life; and for this reason, among others, she generally gave the old
Irish versions of the songs in question, rather than the English ones.
This, however, as I said, was not her sole motive. In the first place,
she had several old songs, which at that time,--I believe, too, I may
add at this,--had never been translated; and I very much fear that some
valuable ones, both as to words and airs, have perished with her. Her
family were all imbued with a poetical spirit, and some of her immediate
ancestors composed in the Irish tongue several fine old songs, in the
same manner as Carolan did; that is, some in praise of a patron or a
friend, and others to celebrate rustic beauties, that have long since
been sleeping in the dust. For this reason she had many old compositions
that were almost peculiar to our family, which I am afraid could not now
be procured at all, and are consequently lost. I think her uncle, and
I believe her grandfather, were the authors of several Irish poems and
songs, because I know that some of them she sang, and others she only
recited.

Independently of this, she had a prejudice against singing the Irish
airs to English words; an old custom of the country was thereby invaded,
and an association disturbed which habit had rendered dear to her. I
remember on one occasion, when she was asked to sing the English version
of that touching melody, “The Red-haired Man’s Wife,” she replied,
“I will sing it for you; but the English words and the air are like a
quarrelling man and wife: the Irish melts into the tune, but the English
doesn’t,” an expression scarcely less remarkable for its beauty than its
truth. She spoke the words in Irish.

This gift of singing with such sweetness and power the old sacred songs
and airs of Ireland, was not the only one for which she was remarkable.
Perhaps there never lived a human being capable of giving the Irish cry,
or Keene, with such exquisite effect, or of pouring into its wild notes
a spirit of such irresistible pathos and sorrow. I have often been
present when she has “raised the keene” over the corpse of some relative
or neighbor, and my readers may judge of the melancholy charm which
accompanied this expression of her sympathy, when I assure them that
the general clamor of violent grief was gradually diminished, from
admiration, until it became ultimately hushed, and no voice was heard
but her own--wailing in sorrowful but solitary beauty. This pause, it
is true, was never long, for however great the admiration might be which
she excited, the hearts of those who heard her soon melted, and even
strangers were often forced to confess her influence by the tears which
she caused them to shed for those whose deaths could, otherwise, in no
other way have affected them. I am the youngest, I believe, of fourteen
children, and of course could never have heard her until age and the
struggles of life had robbed her voice of its sweetness. I heard enough,
however, from her blessed lips, to set my heart to an almost painful
perception of that spirit which steeps these fine old songs in a
tenderness which no other music possesses. Many a time, of a winter
night, when seated at her spinning-wheel, singing the _Trougha_, or
_Shuil agra_, or some other old “song of sorrow,” have I, then little
more than a child, gone over to her, and with a broken voice and eyes
charged with tears, whispered, “Mother dear, don’t sing that song, it
makes me sorrowful;” she then usually stopped, and sung some one which I
liked better because it affected me less. At this day I am in possession
of Irish airs, which none of our best antiquaries in Irish music have
heard, except through me, and of which neither they nor I myself know
the names.

Such, gentle reader, were my humble parents, under whose untaught, but
natural genius, setting all other advantages aside, it is not to be
wondered at that my heart should have been so completely moulded into
that spirit and, those feelings which characterize my country and her
children.

These, however, were my domestic advantages; but I now come to others,
which arose from my position in life as the son of a man who was one
of the people. My father, at the farthest point to which my memory goes
back, lived in a townland called Prillisk, in the parish of Clogher, and
county of Tyrone; and I only remember living there in a cottage. From
that the family removed to a place called Tonagh, or, more familiarly,
Towney, about an English mile from Prillisk. It was here I first went to
school to a Connaught-man named Pat Frayne, who, however, remained there
only for a very short period in the neighborhood. Such was the neglected
state of education at that time, that for a year or two afterwards there
was no school sufficiently near to which I could be sent. At length it
was ascertained that a master, another Connaught-man by the way, named
O’Beirne, had opened a school--a hedge-school of course--at Pindramore.
To this I was sent, along with my brother John, the youngest of the
family next to myself. I continued with him for about a year and a
half, when who should return to our neighborhood but Pat Frayne, the
redoubtable prototype of Mat Kavanagh in “The Hedge School.” O’Beirne,
it is true, was an excellent specimen of the hedge-schoolmaster, but
nothing at all to be compared to Frayne. About the period I write of,
there was no other description of school to which any one could be sent,
and the consequence was, that rich and poor (I speak of the peasantry),
Protestant and Catholic, Presbyterian and Methodist, boys and girls,
were all congregated under the same roof, to the amount of from a
hundred to a hundred and fifty, or two hundred. In this school I
remained for about a year or two, when our family removed to a place
called Nurchasy, the property of the Rev. Dr. Story, of Corick. Of
us, however, he neither could nor did know anything, for we were
under-tenants, our immediate landlord being no less a person than Hugh
Traynor, then so famous for the distillation, sub rosa, of exquisite
mountain dew, and to whom the reader will find allusions made in that
capacity more than once in the following volume. Nurchasy was within
about half a mile of Findramore, to which school, under O’Beirne, I was
again sent. Here I continued, until a classical teacher came to a place
called Tulnavert, now the property of John Birney, Esq., of Lisburn,
to whom I had the pleasure of dedicating the two first volumes of my
“Traits and Stories.” This tyrannical blockhead, whose name I do not
choose to mention, instead of being allowed to teach classics, ought to
have been put into a strait-waistcoat or the stocks, and either whipped
once in every twenty-four hours, or kept in a madhouse until the day of
his death. He had been a student in Maynooth, where he became deranged,
and was, of course, sent home to his friends, with whom he recovered
sufficiently to become cruel and hypocritical, to an extent which I have
never yet seen equalled. Whenever the son of a rich man committed an
offence, he would grind his teeth and growl like a tiger, but in no
single instance had he the moral courage or sense of justice to correct
him. On the contrary, he uniformly “nursed his wrath to keep it warm,”
 until the son of a poor man transgressed, and on his unfortunate body
he was sure to wreak signal vengeance for the stupidity or misconduct of
the wealthy blockhead. This was his system, and my readers may form some
opinion of the low ebb at which knowledge and moral feeling were at the
time, when I assure them, that not one of the humbler boys durst make a
complaint against the scoundrel at home, unless under the certainty of
being well flogged for their pains. A hedge-schoolmaster was then held
in such respect and veneration, that no matter how cruel or profligate
he might be, his person and character, unless in some extraordinary case
of cruelty, resulting in death or mutilation, were looked upon as free
from all moral or legal responsibility. This certainly was not the fault
of the people, but of those laws, which, by making education a crime,
generated ignorance, and then punished it for violating them.

For the present it is enough to say, that a most interesting child,
a niece of my own, lost her life by the severity of Pat Frayne, the
Connaught-man. In a fit of passion he caught the poor girl by the ear,
which he nearly plucked out of her head. The violence of the act broke
some of the internal muscles or tendons,--suppuration and subsequently
inflammation, first of the adjoining Parts and afterwards of the brain,
took place, and the fine intelligent little creature was laid in
a premature grave, because the ignorance of the people justified a
pedantic hedge-schoolmaster in the exercise of irresponsible cruelty.
Frayne was never prosecuted, neither was the classical despot, who by
the way sits for the picture of the fellow in whose school, and at whose
hands, the Poor Scholar receives the tyrannical and heartless treatment
mentioned in that tale. Many a time the cruelty exercised towards that
unhappy boy, whose name was Qum, has wrung my heart and brought the
involuntary tears to my eyes,--tears which I was forced to conceal,
being very well assured from experience, that any sympathy of mine, if
noticed, would be certain to procure me or any other friend of his, an
ample participation in his punishment. He was, in truth, the scape-goat
of the school, and it makes my blood boil, even whilst I write, to think
how the poor friendless lad, far removed from either father or mother,
was kicked, and cuffed, and beaten on the naked head, with a kind of
stick between a horse-rod and a cudgel, until his poor face got pale,
and he was forced to totter over to a seat in order to prevent himself
from fainting or falling in consequence of severe pain.

At length, however, the inhuman villain began to find, when it was too
late, that his ferocity, in spite of the terror which it occasioned, was
soon likely to empty his school. He now became as fawning and slavish as
he had before been insolent and savage; but the wealthy farmers of the
neighborhood, having now full cognizance of his conduct, made common
cause with the poorer men whose children were so shamefully treated, and
the result was, that in about six weeks they forced him to leave that
part of the country for want of scholars, having been literally groaned
out of it by the curses and indignation of all who knew him.

Here then was I once more at a loss for a school, and I must add, in no
disposition at all to renew my acquaintance with literature. Our family
had again removed from Nurchasy, to a place up nearer the mountains,
called Springtown, on the northern side of the parish. I was now
about fourteen, and began to feel a keen relish for all the sports and
amusements of the country, into which I entered with a spirit of youth
and enthusiasm rarely equalled. For about two years I attended no
school, but it was during this period that I received, notwithstanding,
the best part of my education. Our farm in Springtown was about sixteen
or eighteen acres, and I occasionally assisted the family in working at
it, but never regularly, for I was not called upon to do so, nor would I
have been permitted even had I wished it. It was about six months after
our removal to Springtown, that an incident in my early life occurred
which gave rise to one of the most popular tales perhaps, with the
exception of “The Miser,” that I have written--that is “The Poor
Scholar.” There being now no classical school within eighteen or twenty
miles of Springtown, it was suggested to our family by a nephew of the
parish priest, then a young man of six or eight and twenty, that, under
the circumstances, it would be a prudent step on their part to prepare
an outfit, and send me up to Munster as a poor scholar, to complete my
education. Pat Frayne, who by the way had been a poor scholar himself,
had advised the same thing before, and as the name does not involve
disgrace I felt no reluctance in going, especially as the priest’s
nephew, who proposed it, had made up his mind on accompanying me for
a similar purpose. Indeed, the poor scholars who go to Munster are
indebted for nothing but their bed and board, which they receive
kindly and hospitably from the parents of the scholars. The masters are
generally paid their full terms by these pitiable beings, but this rule,
like all others, of course, has its exceptions. At all events, my
outfit was got ready, and on a beautiful morning in the month of May
I separated from my family to go in quest of education. There was no
collection, however, in my case, as mentioned in the tale; as my own
family supplied the funds supposed to be necessary. I have been present,
however, at more than one collection made for similar purposes, and
heard a good-natured sermon not very much differing from that given in
the story.

The priest’s nephew, on the day we were to start, suddenly changed his
mind, and I consequently had to undertake the journey alone, which I
did with a heavy heart. The farther I got from home, the more my spirits
sank, or in the beautiful image of Goldsmith,

     “I dragged at each remove a lengthening chain.”

I travelled as far as the town of Granard, and during the journey, it
is scarcely necessary to say, that the almost parental tenderness
and hospitality which I received on my way could not be adequately
described. The reader will find an attempt at it in the story. The
parting from home and my adventures on the road are real.

Having reached Granard my courage began to fail, and my family at home,
now that I had departed from them, began also to feel something like
remorse for having permitted one so young and inexperienced as I then
was, to go abroad alone upon the world. My mother’s sorrow, especially,
was deep, and her cry was, “Oh, why did I let my boy go? maybe I will
never see him again!”

At this time, as the reader may be aware from my parental education,
there was not a being alive more thoroughly imbued with superstition;
and, whether for good or ill, at all events that superstition returned
me to my family. On reaching Granard, I felt, of course, fatigued,
and soon went to bed, where I slept soundly. It was not, however, a
dreamless sleep: I thought I was going along a strange path to some
particular place, and that a mad bull met me on the road, and pursued
me with such speed and fury that I awoke in a state of singular terror.
That was sufficient; my mind had been already wavering, and the
dream determined me. The next morning after breakfast I bent my steps
homewards, and, as it happened, my return took a weighty load of bitter
grief from the heart of my mother and family. The house I stopped at
in Granard was a kind of small inn, kept by a man whose name was Peter
Grehan. Such were the incidents which gave rise to the tale of “The Poor
Scholar.”

I was now growing up fast, and began to feel a boyish ambition of
associating with, those who were older and bigger than myself. Although
miserably deficient in education--for I had been well beaten but never
taught--yet I was looked upon as a prodigy of knowledge; and I can
assure the reader that I took very good care not to dispel that
agreeable delusion. Indeed, at this time, I was as great a young
literary coxcomb as ever lived, my vanity being high and inflated
exactly in proportion to my ignorance, which was also of the purest
water. This vanity, however, resulted as much from my position and
circumstances as from any strong disposition to be vain on my part.
It was generated by the ignorance of the people, and their extreme
veneration for any thing in the shape of superior knowledge. In fact,
they insisted that I knew every earthly subject, because I had been a
couple of years at Latin, and was designed for a priest. It was useless
to undeceive men who would not be convinced, so I accordingly gave them,
as they say, “the length of their tether;” nay, to such, purpose did I
ply them with proofs of it, that my conversation soon became as fine a
specimen of pedantic bombast as ever was uttered. Not a word under
six feet could come out of my lips, even of English; but as the best
English, after all, is but commonplace, I peppered them with vile
Latin, and an occasional verse in Greek, from St. John’s Gospel, which
I translated for them into a wrong meaning, with an air of lofty
superiority that made them turn up their eyes with wonder. I was then,
however, but one of a class which still exists, and will continue to do
so until a better informed generation shall prevent those who compose it
from swaggering about in all the pompous pride of young impostors,
who boast of knowing “the seven languages.” The reader will find an
illustration of this in the sketch of “Denis O’Shaughnessy going to
Maynooth.”

In the meantime, I was unconsciously but rapidly preparing myself for
a position in Irish literature, which I little dreamt I should ever
occupy. I now mingled in the sports and pastimes of the people, until
indulgence in them became the predominant passion of mv youth. Throwing
the stone, wrestling, leaping, foot-ball, and every other description
of athletic exercise filled up the measure of my early happiness. I
attended every wake, dance, fair, and merry-making in the neighborhood,
and became so celebrated for dancing hornpipes, jigs, and reels, that I
was soon without a rival in the parish.

This kind of life, though very delightful to a boy of my years, was not,
however, quite satisfactory, as it afforded me no ultimate prospect, and
the death of my father had occasioned the circumstances of the family
to decline. I heard, about this time, that a distant relative of mine,
a highly respectable priest, had opened a classical school near
Glasslough, in the county of Monaghan. To him I accordingly went,
mentioned our affinity, and had my claims allowed. I attended his school
with intermission for about two years, at the expiration of which period
I once more returned to our family, who were then very much reduced.

I was now about nineteen, strong, active, and could leap two-and-twenty
feet on a dead level; but though thoroughly acquainted with Irish life
among my own class, I was as ignorant of the world as a child. Ever
since my boyhood, in consequence of the legends which I had heard from
my father, about the far-famed Lough-derg, or St. Patrick’s Purgatory, I
felt my imagination fired with a romantic curiosity to perform a station
at that celebrated place. I accordingly did so, and the description of
that most penal performance, some years afterwards, not only constituted
my debut in literature, but was also the means of preventing me from
being a pleasant, strong-bodied parish priest at this day; indeed, it
was the cause of changing the whole destiny of my subsequent life.

“The Loughderg Pilgrim” is given in the present edition, and may be
relied on, not so much as an ordinary narrative, as a perfect transcript
of what takes place during the stations which are held there in the
summer months.

Having returned from this, I knew not exactly how to dispose of myself.
On one thing I was determined--never to enter the Church;--but this
resolution I kept faithfully to myself. I had nothing for it now but to
forget my sacerdotal prospects, which, as I have said, had already been
renounced, or to sink down as many others like me had done, into a mere
tiller of the earth,--a character in Ireland far more unpopular than
that which the Scotch call “a sticket minister!”

It was about this period, that chance first threw the inimitable
Adventures of the renowned Gil Bias across my path. During my whole
life I had been an insatiable reader of such sixpenny romances and
history-books as the hedge-schools afforded. Many a time have I given
up my meals rather than lose one minute from the interest excited by
the story I was perusing. Having read _Gil Bias_, however, I felt an
irrepressible passion for adventure, which nothing could divert; in
fact, I was as much the creature of the impulse it excited, as the ship
is of the helmsman, or the steam-engine of the principle that guides it.

Stimulated by this romantic love of adventure, I left my native place,
and directed my steps to the parish of Killanny, in the county of Louth,
the Catholic clergyman of which was a nephew of our own Parish Priest,
brother to him who proposed going to Munster with me, and an old
school-fellow of my own, though probably twenty years my senior. This
man’s residence was within a quarter or half a mile’s distance of the
celebrated Wild-goose Lodge, in which, some six months before, a
whole family, consisting of, I believe, eight persons, men, women, and
children, had been, from motives of personal vengeance, consumed to
ashes. I stopped with him for a fortnight, and succeeded in procuring
a tuition in the house of a wealthy farmer named Piers Murphy, near
Corcreagh. This, however, was a tame life, and a hard one, so I resolved
once more to give up a miserable salary and my board, for the fortunate
chances which an ardent temperament and a strong imagination perpetually
suggested to me as likely to be evolved out of the vicissitudes of life.
Urged on, therefore, by a spirit of romance, I resolved to precipitate
myself on the Irish Metropolis, which I accordingly entered with two
shillings and ninepence in my pocket; an utter stranger, of course
friendless; ignorant of the world, without aim or object, but not
without a certain strong feeling of vague and shapeless ambition, for
the truth was I had not yet begun to think, and, consequently, looked
upon life less as a reality than a vision.

Thus have I, as a faithful, but I fear a dull guide, conducted my reader
from the lowly cottage in Prillisk, where I first drew my breath, along
those tangled walks and green lanes which are familiar to the foot of
the peasant alone, until I enter upon the highways of the world, and
strike into one of its greatest and most crowded thoroughfares--the
Metropolis. Whether this brief sketch of my early and humble life, my
education, my sports, my hopes and struggles, be calculated to excite
any particular interest, I know not; I can only assure my reader that
the details, so far as they go, are scrupulously correct and authentic,
and that they never would have been obtruded upon him, were it not from
an anxiety to satisfy him that in undertaking to describe the Irish
peasantry as they are, I approach the difficult task with advantages of
knowing them, which perhaps few Irish writers ever possessed; and this
is the only merit which I claim.

A few words now upon the moral and physical condition of the people may
not be unsuitable before I close, especially for the sake of those who
may wish to acquire a knowledge of their general character, previous to
their perusal of the following volume. This task, it is true, is not
one of such difficulty now as it was some years ago. Much light has
been thrown on the Irish character, not only by the great names I have
already enumerated, but by some equally high which I have omitted. On
this subject it would be impossible to overlook the names of
Lever, Maxwell, or Otway, or to forget the mellow hearth-light and
chimney-corner tone, the happy dialogue and legendary truth which
characterize the exquisite fairy legends of Crofton Croker. Much of the
difficulty of the task, I say, has been removed by these writers,
but there remains enough still behind to justify me in giving a short
dissertation upon the habits and feelings of my countrymen.

Of those whose physical state has been and is so deplorably wretched, it
may not be supposed that the tone of morals can be either high or pure;
and yet if we consider the circumstance in which he has been for such
a lengthened period placed, it is undeniable that the Irishman is a
remarkably moral man. Let us suppose, for instance, that in England
and Scotland the great body of the people had for a couple or three
centuries never received an adequate or proper education: in that case,
let us ask what the moral aspect of society in either country would be
to-day? But this is not merely the thing to be considered. The Irishman
was not only not educated, but actually punished for attempting to
acquire knowledge in the first place, and in the second, punished also
for the ignorance created by its absence. In other words, the penal
laws rendered education criminal, and then caused the unhappy people to
suffer for the crimes which proper knowledge would have prevented them
from, committing. It was just like depriving a man of his sight, and
afterwards causing him to be punished for stumbling. It is beyond
all question, that from the time of the wars of Elizabeth and the
introduction of the Reformation, until very recently, there was no fixed
system of wholesome education in the country. The people, possessed
of strong political and religious prejudices, were left in a state of
physical destitution and moral ignorance, such as were calculated to
produce ten times the amount of crime which was committed. Is it any
wonder, then, that in such a condition, social errors and dangerous
theories should be generated, and that neglect, and poverty, and
ignorance combined should give to the country a character for turbulence
and outrage? The same causes will produce the same effects in any
country, and were it not that the standard of personal and domestic
comfort was so low in Ireland, there is no doubt that the historian
would have a much darker catalogue of crime to record than he has. The
Irishman, in fact, was mute and patient under circumstances which would
have driven the better fed and more comfortable Englishman into open
outrage and contempt of all authority. God forbid that I for a moment
should become the apologist of crime, much less the crimes of my
countrymen! but it is beyond all question that the principles upon which
the country was governed have been such as to leave down to the present
day many of their evil consequences behind them. The penal code, to be
sure, is now abolished, but so are not many of its political effects
among the people. Its consequences have not yet departed from the
country, nor has the hereditary hatred of the laws, which unconsciously
descended from father to son, ceased to regulate their conduct and
opinions. Thousands of them are ignorant that ever such a thing as a
penal code existed; yet the feeling against law survives, although the
source from which it has been transmitted may be forgotten. This will
easily account for much of the political violence and crime which
moments of great excitement produce among us; nor need we feel surprised
that this state of things should be continued, to the manifest injury
of the people themselves, by the baneful effects of agitation.

The period, therefore, for putting the character of our country fairly
upon, its trial has not yet arrived; although we are willing to take the
Irishman as we find him; nor would we shrink even at the present moment
from comparing him with any of his neighbors. His political sins and
their consequences were left him as an heirloom, and result from a state
of things which he himself did not occasion. Setting these aside, where
is the man to be found in any country who has carried with him through
all his privations and penalties so many of the best virtues of our
nature? In other countries the man who commits a great crime is always
a great criminal, and the whole heart is hardened and debased, but it
is not so in Ireland. The agrarian and political outrage is often
perpetrated by men who possess the best virtues of humanity, and whose
hearts as individuals actually abhor the crime. The moral standard here
is no doubt dreadfully erroneous, and until a correct and Christian one,
emanating from a better system of education, shall be substituted for
it, it will, with a people who so think and feel, be impossible utterly
to prevent the occurrence of these great evils. We must wait for thirty
or forty years, that is, until the rising or perhaps the subsequent
generation shall be educated out of these wild and destructive
prejudices, before we can fully estimate the degree of excellence to
which our national character may arrive. In my own youth, and I am
now only forty-four years, I do not remember a single school under the
immediate superintendence of either priest or parson, and that in a
parish the extent of which is, I dare say, ten miles by eight. The
instruction of the children was altogether a matter in which no clergy
of any creed took an interest. This was left altogether to hedge
schoolmasters, a class of men who, with few exceptions, bestowed such an
education upon the people as is sufficient almost, in the absence of all
other causes, to account for much of the agrarian violence and erroneous
principles which regulate their movements and feelings on that and
similar subjects. For further information on this matter the reader is
referred to the “Hedge School.”

With respect to these darker shades of the Irish character, I feel that,
consistently with that love of truth and impartiality which has guided,
and I trust ever shall guide, my pen, I could not pass them over without
further notice. I know that it is a very questionable defence to say
that some, if not principally all, of their crimes originate in agrarian
or political vengeance. Indeed, I believe that, so far from this
circumstance being looked upon as a defence, it ought to be considered
as an aggravation of the guilt; inasmuch as it is, beyond all doubt, at
least a far more manly thing to inflict an injury upon an enemy face to
face, and under the influence of immediate resentment, than to crouch
like a cowardly assassin behind a hedge and coolly murder him without
one moment’s preparation, or any means whatsoever of defence. This is a
description of crime which no man with one generous drop of blood in his
veins can think of without shame and indignation. Unhappily, however,
for the security of human life, every crime of the kind results more
from the dark tyranny of these secret confederacies, by which the lower
classes are organized, than from any natural appetite for shedding
blood. Individually, the Irish loathe murder as much as any people in
the world; but in the circumstances before us, it often happens that the
Irishman is not a free agent--very far from it: on the contrary, he
is frequently made the instrument of a system, to which he must become
either an obedient slave or a victim.

Even here, however, although nothing can or ought to be said to palliate
the cowardly and unmanly crime of assassination, yet something can
certainly be advanced to account for the state of feeling by which,
from time to time, and by frequent occurrence, it came to be so
habitual among the people, that by familiarity it became stripped of its
criminality and horror.

Now it is idle, and it would be dishonest, to deny the fact, that the
lower Irish, until a comparatively recent period, were treated with
apathy and gross neglect by the only class to whom they could or ought
to look up for sympathy or protection. The conferring of the elective
franchise upon the forty-shilling freeholders, or in other words upon
paupers, added to the absence of proper education, or the means
of acquiring it, generated, by the fraudulent subdivision of small
holdings, by bribery, perjury, and corruption, a state of moral feeling
among the poorer classes which could not but be productive of much
crime. And yet, notwithstanding this shameful prostitution of their
morals and comfort, for the purposes of political ambition or personal
aggrandizement, they were in general a peaceable and enduring people;
and it was only when some act of unjustifiable severity, or oppression
in the person of a middleman, agent, or hardhearted landlord, drove them
houseless upon the world, that they fell back upon the darker crimes
of which I am speaking. But what, I ask, could be expected from such a
state of things? And who generated it? It is not, indeed, to be wondered
at that a set of men, who so completely neglected their duties as
the old landlords of Ireland did, should have the very weapons turned
against themselves which their own moral profligacy first put into the
hands of those whom they corrupted. Up to this day the peasantry are
charged with indifference to the obligation of an oath, and in those who
still have anything to do in elections, I fear with too much truth. But
then let us inquire who first trained and familiarized them to it? Why,
the old landlords of Ireland; and now their descendants, and such of
themselves as survive, may behold, in the crimes which disgrace the
country, the disastrous effects of a bad system created by their
forefathers or themselves.

In the meantime, I have no doubt that by the removal of the causes which
produced this deplorable state of things, their disastrous effects will
also soon disappear. That the present landlords of Ireland are, with the
ordinary number of exceptions, a very different class of men from those
who have gone before them, is a fact which will ultimately tell for the
peace and prosperity of the country. Let the ignorance of the people,
or rather the positive bad knowledge with which, as to a sense of civil
duties, their minds are filled, be removed, and replaced with principles
of a higher and more Christian tendency. Let the Irish landlords
consider the interests of their tenantry as their own, and there is
little doubt that with the aids of science, agricultural improvement,
and the advantages of superior machinery, the Irish will become a
prosperous, contented, and great people.

It is not just to the general character of our people, however, to speak
of these crimes as national; for, in fact, they are not so. If Tipperary
and some of the adjoining parts of Munster were blotted out of the moral
map of the country, we would stand as a nation in a far higher position
than that which we occupy in the opinion of our neighbors. This is a
distinction which in justice to us ought to be made, for it is surely
unfair to charge the whole kingdom with the crimes which disgrace only
a single county of it, together with a few adjacent districts--allowing,
of course, for some melancholy exceptions in other parts.

Having now discussed, with, I think, sufficient candor and impartiality,
that portion of our national character which appears worst and weakest
in the eyes of our neighbors, and attempted to show that pre-existing
circumstances originating from an unwise policy had much to do in
calling into existence and shaping its evil impulses, I come now to
a more agreeable task--the consideration, of our social and domestic
virtues. And here it is where the Irishman immeasurably outstrips all
competitors. His hospitality is not only a habit but a principle; and
indeed of such a quick and generous temperament is he, that in ninety
cases out of a hundred the feeling precedes the reflection, which in
others prompts the virtue. To be a stranger and friendless, or suffering
hunger and thirst, is at any time a sufficient passport to his heart and
purse; but it is not merely the thing or virtue, but also his manner
of doing it, that constitutes the charm which runs through his conduct.
There is a natural politeness and sincerity in his manner which no man
can mistake; and it is a fact, the truth of which I have felt a thousand
times, that he will make you feel the acceptance of the favor of
kindness he bestows to be a compliment to himself rather than to you.
The delicate ingenuity with which he diminishes the nature or amount of
his own kindness, proves that he is no common man, either in heart or
intellect; and when all fails he will lie like Lucifer himself,
and absolutely seduce you into an acceptance of his hospitality or
assistance. I speak now exclusively of the peasantry. Certainly in
domestic life there is no man so exquisitely affectionate and humanized
as the Irishman. The national imagination is active and the national
heart warm, and it follows very naturally that he should be, and is,
tender and strong in all his domestic relations. Unlike the people of
other nations, his grief is loud but lasting, vehement but deep; and
whilst its shadow has been chequered by the laughter and mirth of a
cheerful disposition, still in the moments of seclusion, at his bedside
prayer, or over the grave of those he loved, it will put itself forth
after half a life with a vivid power of recollection which is sometimes
almost beyond belief.

The Irish, however, are naturally a refined people; but by this I mean
the refinement which appreciates and cherishes whatever there is in
nature, as manifested through the influence of the softer arts of music
and poetry. The effect of music upon the Irish heart I ought to know
well, and no man need tell me that a barbarous or cruel people ever
possessed national music that was beautiful and pathetic. The music of
any nation is the manifestation of its general feeling, and not that
which creates it; although there is no doubt but the one when formed
perpetuates and reproduces the other. It is no wonder, then, that the
domestic feelings of the Irish should be so singularly affectionate
and strong, when we consider that they have been, in spite of every
obstruction, kept under the softening influence of music and poetry.
This music and poetry, too, essentially their own--and whether streaming
of a summer through their still glens, or poured forth at the winter
hearth, still, by its soft and melancholy spirit, stirring up a thousand
tender associations that must necessarily touch and improve the heart.
And it is for this reason that, that heart becomes so remarkably
eloquent, if not poetical, when moved by sorrow. Many a time I have seen
a Keener commence her wail over the corpse of a near relative, and by
degrees she has risen from the simple wail or cry to a high but mournful
recitative, extemporized, under the excitement of the moment, into
sentiments that were highly figurative and impressive. In this she
was aided very much by the genius of the language, which possesses the
finest and most copious vocabulary in the world for the expression of
either sorrow or love.

It has been said that the Irish, notwithstanding a deep susceptibility
of sorrow, are a light-hearted people; and this is strictly true. What,
however, is the one fact but a natural consequence of the other? No man
for instance ever possessed a higher order of humor, whose temperament
was not naturally melancholy, and no country in the world more clearly
establishes that point than Ireland. Here the melancholy and mirth are
not simply in a proximate state, but frequently flash together, and
again separate so quickly, that the alternation or blending, as the case
may be, whilst it is felt by the spectators, yet stands beyond all known
rules of philosophy to solve it. Any one at all acquainted with Ireland,
knows that in no country is mirth lighter, or sorrow deeper, or the
smile and the tear seen more frequently on the face at the same moment.
Their mirth, however, is not levity, nor their sorrow gloom; and for
this reason none of those dreary and desponding reactions take place,
which, as in France especially, so frequently terminate in suicide.

The recreations of the Irish were very varied and some of them of
a highly intellectual cast. These latter, however, have altogether
disappeared from the country, or at all events are fast disappearing.
The old Harper is now hardly seen; the Senachie, where he exists, is but
a dim and faded representative of that very old Chronicler in his palmy
days; and the Prophecy-man unfortunately has survived the failure of
his best and most cherished predictions. The poor old Prophet’s stock
in trade is nearly exhausted, and little now remains but the slaughter
which is to take place at the mill of Louth, when human blood, and the
miller to have six fingers and two thumbs on each hand, as a collateral
prognostication of that bloody event.

The amusement derived from these persons was undoubtedly of a very
imaginative character, and gives sufficient proof, that had the national
intellect been duly cultivated, it is difficult to say in what position
as a literary country Ireland might have stood at this day. At present
the national recreations, though still sufficiently varied and numerous
are neither so strongly marked nor diversified as formerly. Fun, or
the love of it, to be sure, is an essential principle in the Irish
character; and nothing that can happen, no matter how solemn or how
sorrowful it may be, is allowed to proceed without it. In Ireland the
house of death is sure to be the merriest one in the neighborhood; but
here the mirth is kindly and considerately introduced, from motives of
sympathy--in other words, for the alleviation of the mourners’ sorrow.
The same thing may be said of its association with religion. Whoever has
witnessed a Station in Ireland made at some blessed lake or holy well,
will understand this. At such places it is quite usual to see young
men and women devoutly circumambulating the well or lake on their bare
knees, with all the marks of penitence and contrition strongly
impressed upon their faces; whilst again, after an hour or two, the same
individuals may be found in a tent dancing with ecstatic vehemence to
the music of the bagpipe or fiddle.

All these things, however, will be found, I trust I may say faithfully
depicted in the following volume--together with many other important
features of our general character; which I would dwell on here, were it
not that they are detailed very fully in other parts of my works, and I
do not wish to deprive them of the force of novelty when they occur, nor
to appear heavy by repetition.

In conclusion, I have endeavored, with what success has been already
determined by the voice of my own country, to give a panorama of Irish
life among the people--comprising at one view all the strong points of
their general character--their loves, sorrows, superstitions, piety,
amusements, crimes, and virtues; and in doing this, I can say with
solemn truth that I painted them honestly, and without reference to the
existence of any particular creed or party.

W. Carleton.

Dublin.



NED M’KEOWN.

Ned M’Keown’s house stood exactly in an angle, formed by the cross-roads
of Kilrudden. It was a long, whitewashed building, well thatched and
furnished with the usual appurtenances of yard and offices. Like most
Irish houses of the better sort, it had two doors, one opening into a
garden that sloped down from the rear in a southern direction. The barn
was a continuation of the dwelling-house, and might be distinguished
from it by a darker shade of color, being only rough-cast. It was
situated on a small eminence, but, with respect to the general locality
of the country, in a delightful vale, which runs up, for twelve or
fourteen miles, between two ranges of dark, well-defined mountains, that
give to the interjacent country the form of a low inverted arch.
This valley, which altogether, allowing for the occasional breaks and
intersections of hill-ranges, extends upwards of thirty miles in length,
is the celebrated valley of the “Black Pig,” so well known in the
politico-traditional history of Ireland, and the legends connected with
the famous Beal Dearg.*

     * The following extract, taken from a sketch by the author
     called “The Irish Prophecy-man,” contains a very appropriate
     illustration of the above passage. “I have a little book
     that contains a prophecy of the milk-white hind an’ the
     bloody panther, an’ a foreboding of the slaughter there’s to
     be in the Valley of the Black Pig, as foretould by Beal
     Derg, or the prophet wid the red mouth, who never was known
     to speak but when he prophesied, or to prophesy but when he
     spoke.”

     “The Lord bless an’ keep us!--an’ why was he called the Man
     with the Red Mouth, Barney?”

     “I’ll tell you that: first, bekase he always prophesied
     about the slaughter an’ fightin’ that was to take place in
     the time to come; an’, secondly, bekase, while he spoke, the
     red blood always trickled out of his mouth, as a proof that
     what he foretould was true.”

     “Glory be to God! but that’s wondherful all out. Well,
     we’ll!”

     “Ay, an’ Beal Deig, or the Red Mouth, is still livin’.”

     “Livin! why, is he a man of our own time?”

     “Our own time! The Lord help you! It’s more than a thousand
     years since he made the prophecy. The case you see is this:
     he an’ the ten thousand witnesses are lyin’ in an enchanted
     sleep in one of the Montherlony mountains.”

     “An’ how is that known, Barney?”

     “It’s known, Every night at a certain hour one of the
     witnesses--an’ they’re all sogers, by the way--must come out
     to look for the sign that’s to come.”

     “An’ what is that, Barney?”

     “It’s the fiery cross; an’ when he sees one on aich of the
     four mountains of the north, he’s to know that the same
     sign’s abroad in all the other parts of the kingdom. Beal
     Derg an’ his men are then to waken up, an’ by their aid the
     Valley of the Black Pig is to be set free forever.”

     “An’ what is the Black Pig, Barney?”

     “The Prospitarian church, that stretches from Enniskillen to
     Darry, an’ back again from Darry to Enniskillen.”

     “Well, well, Barney, but prophecy is a strange thing, to be
     sure! Only think of men livin’ a thousand years!”

     “Every night one of Beal Derg’s men must go to the mouth of
     the cave, which opens of itself, an’ then look out for the
     sign that’s expected. He walks up to the top of the
     mountain, an’ turns to the four corners of the heavens, to
     thry if he can see it; an’ when he finds that he cannot, he
     goes back to Beal Derg. who, afther the other touches him,
     starts up and axis him, ‘Is the time come?’ He replies, ‘No;
     the _man is_, but the _hour is not!_’ an’ that instant
     they’re both asleep again. Now, you see, while the soger is
     on the mountain top, the mouth of the cave is open, an’ any
     one may go in that might happen to see it. One man it
     appears did, an’ wishin’ to know from curiosity whether the
     sogers were dead or livin’, he touched one of them wid his
     hand, who started up an’ axed him the same question, ‘Is the
     time come?’ Very fortunately he said, ‘No;’ an’ that minute
     the soger was as sound in his trance as before.”

     “An’, Barney, what did the soger mane when he said. ‘The man
     is, but the hour is not?’”

     “What did he mane? I’ll tell you that. The man is
     Bonyparty, which manes, when put into proper explanation,
     the _right side_; that is, the true cause. Larned men have
     found _that_ out.”

That part of it where Ned M’Keown resided was peculiarly beautiful and
romantic. From the eminence on which the house stood, a sweep of the
most fertile meadowland stretched away to the foot of a series of
intermingled hills and vales, which bounded this extensive carpet
towards the north. Through these meadows ran a smooth river, called the
Mullin-burn, which wound its way through them with such tortuosity, that
it was proverbial in the neighborhood to say of any man remarkable for
dishonesty, “He’s as crooked as the Mullin-burn,” an epithet which was
sometimes, although unjustly, jocularly applied to Ned himself. This
deep but narrow river had its origin in the glens and ravines of a
mountain which bounded the vale in a south-eastern direction; and
after sudden and heavy rains it tumbled down with such violence and
impetuosity over the crags and rock-ranges in its way, and accumulated
so amazingly, that on reaching the meadows it inundated their surface,
carrying away sheep, cows, and cocks of hay upon its yellow flood. It
also boiled and eddied, and roared with a hoarse _sugh_, that was heard
at a considerable distance.

On the north-west side ran a ridge of high hills, with the cloud-capped
peek of Knockmany rising in lofty eminence above them; these, as they
extended towards the south, became gradually deeper in their hue, until
at length they assumed the shape and form of heath-clad mountains,
dark and towering. The prospect on either range is highly pleasing,
and capable of being compared with any I have ever seen, in softness,
variety, and that serene lustre which reposes only on the surface of a
country rich in the beauty of fertility, and improved, by the hand of
industry and taste. Opposite Knockmany, at a distance of about four
miles, on the south-eastern side, rose the huge and dark outline of
Cullimore, standing out in gigantic relief against the clear blue of a
summer sky, and flinging down his frowning and haughty shadow almost to
the firm-set base of his lofty rival; or, in winter, wrapped in a mantle
of clouds, and crowned with unsullied snow, reposing in undisturbed
tranquillity, whilst the loud voice of storms howled around him.

To the northward, immediately behind Cullimore, lies Althadhawan, a
deep, craggy, precipitous glen, running up to its very base, and wooded
with oak, hazel, rowan-tree, and holly. This picturesque glen extends
two or three miles, until it melts into the softness of grove and
meadow, in the rich landscape below. Then, again, on the opposite side,
is _Lumford’s Glen_, with its overhanging rocks, whose yawning depth and
silver waterfall, of two hundred feet, are at once finely and fearfully
contrasted with the elevated peak of Knockmany, rising into the clouds
above it.

From either side of these mountains may be seen six or eight country
towns--the beautiful grouping of hill and plain, lake, river, grove, and
dell--the reverend cathedral (of Clogher)--the white-washed cottage, and
the comfortable farm-house. To these may be added the wild upland
and the cultivated demesne, the green sheep-walk, the dark moor,
the splendid mansion, and ruined castle of former days. Delightful
remembrance! Many a day, both of sunshine and storm, have I, in the
strength and pride of happy youth, bounded, fleet as the mountain foe,
over these blue hills! Many an evening, as the yellow beams of the
setting sun shot slantingly, like rafters of gold, across the depth
of this blessed and peaceful valley, have I followed, in solitude, the
impulses of a wild and wayward fancy, and sought the quiet dell, or
viewed the setting sun, as he scattered his glorious and shining beams
through the glowing foliage of the trees, in the vista, where I stood;
or wandered along the river whose banks were fringed with the hanging
willow, whilst I listened to the thrush singing among the hazels that
crowned the sloping green above me, or watched the splashing otter, as
he ventured from the dark angles and intricacies of the upland glen,
to seek his prey in the meadow-stream during the favorable dusk of
twilight. Many a time have I heard the simple song of Roger M’Cann,
coming from the top of brown Dunroe, mellowed, by the stillness of the
hour, to something far sweeter to the heart than all that the labored
pomp of musical art and science can effect; or the song of Katty Roy,
the beauty of the village, streaming across the purple-flowered moor,

     “Sweet as the shepherd’s pipe upon the mountains.”

Many a time, too, have I been gratified, in the same poetical hour, by
the sweet sound of honest Ned M’Keown’s ungreased cartwheels, clacking,
when nature seemed to have fallen asleep after the day-stir and
animation of rural business--for Ned was sometimes a carman--on his
return from Dublin with a load of his own groceries, without as much
money in his pocket as would purchase oil wherewith to silence the
sounds which the friction produced--regaling his own ears the while, as
well as the music of the cart would permit his melody to be heard, with
his favorite tune of Cannie Soogah.*

     * “The Jolly Pedlar,”--a fine old Irish air.

Honest, blustering, good-humored Ned was the indefatigable merchant of
the village; ever engaged in some ten or twenty pound speculation, the
capital of which he was sure to extort, perhaps for the twelfth time,
from the savings of Nancy’s frugality, by the equivocal test of a month
or six weeks’ consecutive sobriety, and which said speculation he never
failed to wind up by the total loss of the capital for Nancy, and
the capital loss of a broken head for himself. Ned had eternally some
bargain on his hands: at one time you might see him a yarn-merchant,
planted in the next market-town upon the upper step of Mr. Birney’s
hall-door, where the yarn-market was held, surrounded by a crowd of
eager country-women, anxious to give Ned the preference, first, because
he was a well-wisher; secondly, because he hadn’t his heart in the
penny; and thirdly, because he gave sixpence a spangle more than any
other man in the market.

There might Ned be found; with his twenty pounds of hard silver jingling
in the bottom of a green bag, as a decoy to his customers, laughing loud
as he piled the yarn in and ostentatious heap, which in the pride of his
commercial sagacity, he had purchased at a dead loss. Again you might
see him at a horse-fair, cantering about on the back of some sleek
but broken-winded jade, with spavined legs, imposed on him as “a great
bargain entirely,” by the superior cunning of some rustic sharper; or
standing over a hogshead of damaged flaxseed, in the purchase of which
he shrewdly suspected himself of having overreached the seller--by
allowing him for it a greater price than the prime seed of the market
would have cost tim. In short, Ned was never out of a speculation, and
whatever he undertook was sure to prove a complete failure. But he
had one mode of consolation, which consisted in sitting down with the
fag-end of Nancy’s capital in his pocket, and drinking night and day
with this neighbor and that, whilst a shilling remained; and when he
found himself at the end of his tether, he was sure to fasten a quarrel
on some friend or acquaintance, and to get his head broken for his
pains.

None of all this blustering, however, happened within the range of
Nancy’s jurisdiction. Ned, indeed, might drink and sing, and swagger and
fight--and he contrived to do so; but notwithstanding all his apparent
courage, there was one eye which made him quail, and before which he
never put on the hector;--there was one, in whose presence the loudness
of his song would fall away into a very awkward and unmusical quaver,
and under whose glance his laughing face often changed to the visage of
a man who is disposed to anything but mirth.

The fact was this: Whenever Ned found that his speculation was gone
a shaughran, (*Gone astray) as he termed it, he fixed himself in some
favorite public house, from whence he seldom stirred while his money
lasted, except when dislodged by Nancy, who usually, upon learning where
he had taken cover, paid him an unceremonious visit, to which Ned’s
indefensible delinquency gave the color of legitimate authority. Upon
these occasions, Nancy, accompanied by two sturdy “servant-boys,” would
sally forth to the next market-town, for the purpose of bringing home
“graceless Ned,” as she called him. And then you might see Ned between
the two servants, a few paces in advance of Nancy, having very much
the appearance of a man performing a pilgrimage to the gallows, or of
a deserter guarded back to his barrack, in order to become a target for
the muskets of his comrades. Ned’s compulsory return always became
a matter of some notoriety; for Nancy’s excursion in quest of the
“graceless” was not made without frequent denunciations of wrath against
him, and many melancholy apologies to the neighbors for entering upon
the task of personally securing him. By this means her enterprise was
sure to get wind, and a mob of the idle young men and barefooted
urchins of the village, with Bob M’Cann, “a three-quarter clift” * of
a fellow--half knave, half fool, was to be found, a little below the
village, upon an elevation of the road, that commanded a level stretch
of half a mile or so, in anxious expectation of the procession. No
sooner had this arrived at the point of observation, than the little
squadron would fall rearward of the principal group, for the purpose of
extracting from Nancy a full and particular account of the capture.

[Illustration: PAGE 656-- Bringing home “graceless Ned,”]

     * This is equal to the proverb--“he wants a square,” that
     is, though knavish not thoroughly rational; in other words,
     a combination of knave and fool. Bob, in consequence of his
     accomplishments, was always a great favorite in the village.
     Upon some odd occasions he was a ready and willing drudge at
     everything, and as strong as a ditch. Give him only a good
     fog-meal--which was merely a trifle, just what would serve
     three men or so--give him, we say, a fog-meal of this kind,
     about five times a day, with a liberal promise of more, and
     never was there a Scotch Brownie who could get through so
     much work. He knew no fatigue; frost and cold had no power
     over him; wind, sleet, and hail he laughed at; rain! it
     stretched his skin, he said, after a meal--and that, he
     added, was a comfort. Notwithstanding all this, he was
     neither more nor less than an impersonation of laziness,
     craft, and gluttony. The truth is, that unless in the hope
     of being gorged he would do nothing; and the only way to get
     anything out of him was, never to let the gorge precede the
     labor, but always, on the contrary, to follow it. Bob’s
     accomplishments were not only varied, but of a very elevated
     order, and the means of holding him in high odor among us.
     Great and wonderful, Heaven knows, did we look upon his
     endowments to be. No man, wise or otherwise, could “hunt the
     brock,” alias the badger, within a hundred miles of Bob; for
     when he covered his mouth with his two hands, and gave forth
     the very sounds which the badger is said to utter, did we
     not look upon him--Bob--with as much wonder and reverence as
     we would have done upon the badger himself? Phup-um-phup--
     phup-um-phup--phup-um--phup-um--phup-um-phup. Who but a
     first-rate genius could accomplish this feat in such a
     style? Bob could crow like a cock, bark like a dog, mew like
     a cat, neigh like a horse, bray like an ass, or gobble like
     a turkey-cock. Unquestionably, I have never heard him
     equalled as an imitator of birds and beasts. Bob’s crack
     feat, however, was performing the Screw-pin Dance, of which
     we have only this to say, that by whatsoever means he became
     acquainted with it, it is precisely the same dance which is
     said to have been exhibited by some strolling Moor before
     the late Queen Caroline. It is, indeed, very strange, but no
     less true, that many of the oriental customs are yet
     prevalent in the remote and isolated parts of Ireland. Had
     the late Mr. O’Brien, author of the Essay on Irish Round
     Towers, seen Bob perform the dance I speak of, he would have
     hailed him as a regular worshipper of Budh, and adduced his
     performance as a living confirmation of his theory. Poor
     Bob! he is gone the way of all fools, and all flesh.

“Indeed, childher, it’s no wonder for yez to enquire! Where did I get
him, Dick?--musha, and where would I get him but in the ould place,
a-hagur; with the ould set: don’t yez know that a dacent place or dacent
company wouldn’t sarve Ned?--nobody but Shane Martin, and Jimmy Tague,
and the other blackguards.” *

     * The reader, here, is not to rely implicitly upon the
     accuracy of Nancy’s description of the persons alluded to.
     It is true the men were certainly companions and intimate
     acquaintances of Ned’s, but not entitled to the epithet
     which Nancy in her wrath bestowed upon them. Shane was a
     rollicking fighting, drinking butcher, who cared not a fig!
     whether he treated you to a drink or a drubbing, indeed, it
     was at all times extremely difficult to say whether he was
     likely to give you the drink first or the drubbing
     afterwards, or vice versa. Sometimes he made the drubbing
     the groundwork for the drink and quite as frequently the
     drink the groundwork for the drubbing. Either one or other
     you were sure to receive at his hands; but his general
     practice was to give both. Shane, in fact, was a good-
     humored fellow, well liked, and nobody’s enemy but his own.
     Jemmy Tague was a quiet man, who could fight his corner,
     however, if necessary. Shane,was called Kittogue Shane, from
     being left-handed. Both were butchers, and both, we believe,
     alive and kicking at this day.

“And what will you do with him, Nancy?”

“Och! thin, Dick, avourneen, it’s myself that’s jist tired thinking of
that; at any rate, consamin’ to the loose foot he’ll get this blessed
month to come, Dick, agra!”

“Throth, Nancy,” another mischievous monkey would exclaim, “if
you hadn’t great patience entirely, you couldn’t put up with such
threatment, at all at all.”

“Why thin, God knows it’s true for-you, Barney. D’ye hear that,
‘graceless?’ the very childhre making a laughing-stock and a may-game of
you!--but wait till we get under the roof, any how.”

“Ned,” a third would say, “isn’t it a burning shame for you to break
the poor crathur’s heart this a-way? Throth, but you ought to hould down
your head, sure enough--a dacent woman! that only for her you wouldn’t
have a house over you, so you wouldn’t.”

“And throth, and the same house is going, Tim,” Nancy would exclaim,
“and when it goes, let him see thin who’ll do for him; let him thry if
his blackguards will stand to him, when he won’t have poor foolish Nancy
at his back.”

During these conversations, Ned would walk on between his two guards
with a dogged-looking and condemned face; Nancy behind him, with his own
cudgel, ready to administer an occasional bang whenever he attempted
to slacken his pace, or throw over his shoulder a growl of dissent or
justification.

On getting near home, the neighbors would occasionally pop out their
heads, with a smile of good-humored satire on their faces, which Nancy
was very capable of translating:

“Ay,” she would say, addressing them, “I’ve caught him--here he is to
the fore. Indeed you may well laugh, Kitty Rafferty; not a one of myself
blames you for it.--Ah, ye mane crathur,” aside to Ned, “if you had the
blood of a hen in you, you wouldn’t have the neighbors braking their
hearts laughing at you in sich a way; and above all the people in the
world, them Rafferty’s, that got the decree against us at the last
sessions, although I offered to pay within fifteen shillings of the
differ--the grubs!”

Having seen her hopeful charge safely deposited on the hob, Nancy would
throw her cloak into this corner, and her bonnet into that, with the air
of a woman absorbed by the consideration of some vexatious trial;
she would then sit down, and, lighting her doodeen, (* a short pipe)
exclaim--

“Wurrah, wurrah! but it’s me that’s the heart-scalded crathur with that
man’s four quarters! The Lord may help me and grant me patience with
him, any way!--to have my little honest, hard-earned penny spint among
a pack of vagabonds, that don’t care if him and me wor both down the
river, so they could get their skinful of drink out of him! No matther,
agra, things can’t long be this a-way; but what does Ned care?--give him
drink and fighting, and his blackguards about him, and that’s his glory.
There now’s the landlord coming down upon us for the rint; and unless he
takes the cows out of the byre, or the bed from anundher us, what in the
wide earth is there for him?”

The current of this lecture was never interrupted by a single
observation from Ned, who usually employed himself in silently playing
with “Bunty;” a little black cur, without a tail, and a great favorite
with Nancy; or, if he noticed anything out of its place in the house,
he would arrange it with great apparent care. In the meantime, Nancy’s
wrath generally evaporated with the smoke of the pipe--a circumstance
which Ned well knew; for after she had sucked it until it emitted a
shrill, bubbling sound, like that from a reed, her brows, which wore
at other times an habitual frown, would gradually relax into a more
benevolent expression--the parenthetical curves on each side of her
mouth, formed by the irascible pursing of her lips, would become less
marked--the dog or cat, or whatever else came in her way, instead
of being kicked aside, or pursued in an underfit of digressional
peevishness, would be put out of her path with gentler force--so that
it was, in such circumstances, a matter of little difficulty to perceive
that conciliation would soon be the order of the day. Ned’s conduct on
these critical occasions was very prudent and commendable: he still gave
Nancy her own way; never “jawed back to her;” but took shelter, as it
were, under his own patience, until the storm had passed, and the sun of
her good humor began to shine out again. Nancy herself, now softened
by the fumes of her own pigtail, usually made the first overtures to a
compromise, but, without departing from the practice and principles
of higher negotiators; always in an indirect manner: as, “Biddy,
avourneen,” speaking to her niece, “maybe that crathur,” pointing! to
Ned, “ate nothing to-day; you had better, agra! get him the could bacon
that’s in the cupboard, and warm for him, upon the greeshaugh, (* hot
embers) them yallow-legs (* a kind of potato) that’s in the colindher;
though God he knows it’s ill my common (* It’s ill-becoming--or it ill
becomes me, to everlook his conduct)--but no matther, ahagur! There’s
enough said, I’m thinking--give them to him.”

On Ned seating himself to his bacon and potatoes, Nancy would light
another pipe, and plant herself on the opposite hob, putting some
interrogatory to him, in the way of business--always concerning a third
person, and still in a tone of dry ironical indifference: as--

“Did you see Jimmy Connolly on your travels?”

“No.”

“Humph! Can you tell us if Andy Morrow sould his coult?”

“He did.”

“May be you have _gumption_ enough to know what he got for him?”

“Fifteen guineas.”

“In troth, and it’s more nor a poor body would get; but, anyway, Andy
Morrow desarves to get a good price; he’s a man that takes care of his
own business, and minds nothing else. I wish that filly of ours was
dockt; you ought to spake to Jim M’Quade about her: it’s time to make
her up--you know, we’ll want to sell her for the rint.”

This was an assertion, by the way, which Ned knew to have everything but
truth in it.

“Never heed the filly,” Ned would reply, “I’ll get Charley Lawdher (*
A blacksmith, and an honest man) to dock her--but it’s not her I’m
thinking of: did you hear the news about the tobacky?”

“No; but I hope we won’t be long go.”

“Well, any how, we wor in luck to buy in them three last rowls.”

“Eh?--in luck? death-alive, how, Ned?”

“Sure there was three ships of it lost last week, on their way from the
kingdom of Swuzerland, in the Aist Indians, where it grows: we can rise
it thruppence a-pound now.”

“No, Ned! you’re not in airnest?”

“Faith, Nancy, you may say I am; and as soon as Tom Loan comes home from
Dublin, he’ll tell us all about it; and for that matther, maybe it may
rise sixpence a-pound; any how we’ll gain a lob by it, I’m thinking.”

“May I never stir, but that’s luck! Well, Ned, you may thank me for
that, any way, or sorra rowl we’d have in the four corners of the
house; and you wanted to persuade me against buying them; but I knew
betther--for the tobacky’s always sure to get a bit of a hitch at this
time o’ the year.”

“Bedad, you can do it, Nancy: I’ll say that for you--that is, and give
you your own way.”

“Eh!--can’t I, Ned? And, what waa betther, I bate down Pether M’Entee
three-ha’pence a-pound afther I bought them.”

“Ha! ha! ha!--by my sannies, Nancy, as to market-making, they may
all throw their caps at you, you thief o’ the world; you can do them
nately!”

“Ha! ha! ha! Stop, Ned; don’t drink that water--it’s not from the
garden-well. I’ll jist mix a sup of this last stuff we got from the
mountains, till you taste it: I think it’s not worse nor the last--for
Hugh Traynor’s * an ould hand at making it.”

     * Hugh, who, by the way, is still living, and, I am glad to
     hear, in improved circumstances, was formerly in the habit
     of making a drop of the right sort.

This was all Ned wanted: his point was now carried; but with respect to
the rising of the tobacco, the less that is said about it the bettor for
his veracity.

Having thus given the reader a slight sketch of Ned and Nancy, and of
the beautiful valley in which this worthy speculator had his residence,
I shall next proceed to introduce him to the village circle, which,
during the long winter nights, might be found in front of Ned’s
kitchen-fire of blazing turf, whose light was given back in ruddy
reflection from the bright pewter plates, that were ranged upon the
white and well-scoured dresser in just and gradual order, from the small
egg-plate to the large and capacious dish, whereon, at Christmas and
Easter, the substantial round of corned beef used to rear itself so
proudly over the more ignoble joints at the lower end of the table.

Seated in this clear-obscure of domestic light--which, after all, gives
the heart a finer and more touching notion of enjoyment than the glitter
of the theatre or the blaze of the saloon--might be found first, Andy
Morrow,* the juryman of the quarter-sessions, sage and important in the
consciousness of legal knowledge, and somewhat dictatorial withal in its
application to such knotty points as arose out of the subjects of
their nocturnal debates. Secondly, Bob Gott, who filled the foreign and
military departments, and related the wonderful history of the ghost
which appeared to him on the night after the battle of Bunker’s-hill. To
him succeeded Tom M’Roarkin, the little asthmatic anecdotarian of half
the country,--remarkable for chuckling at his own stories. Then came old
M’Kinny, poacher and horse-jockey; little, squeaking, thin-faced Alick
M’Kinley, a facetious farmer of substance; and Shane Fadh, who handed
down, traditions and fairy tales. Enthroned on one hob sat Pat Frayne,
the schoolmaster with the short arm, who read and explained the
newspaper for “old Square Colwell,” and was looked upon as premier to
the aforesaid cabinet; Ned himself filled the opposite seat of honor.

One night, a little before the Christmas holidays in the year 18--, the
personages just described were seated around Ned’s fire, some with their
chirping pints of ale or porter, and others with their quantum of
_Hugh Traynor_, or mountain-dew, and all with good humor, and a strong
tendency to happiness, visible in their faces. The night was dark,
close, and misty; so dark, indeed, that, as Nancy said, “you could
hardly see your finger before you.” Ned himself was full of fun, with
a pint of porter beside him, and a pipe in his mouth, just in his glory
for the night. Opposite to him was Pat Frayne, with an old newspaper on
his knee, which he had just perused for the edification of his
audience; beside him was, Nancy, busily employed in knitting a pair
of sheep’s-grey stockings for Ned; the remaining personages formed a
semicircular ring about the hearth. Behind, on the kitchen-table sat
Paddy Smith, the servant-man, with three or four of the _gorsoons_ of
the village about him, engaged in an under-plot of their own. On the
other, a little removed from the light, sat Ned’s two nieces, Biddy and
Bessy Connolly, former with Atty Johnson’s mouth within whisper-reach
of her ear, and the latter seated close to her professed admirer, Billy
Fulton, her uncle’s shopman.* This group; was completely abstracted from
the entertainment which was going forward in the circle round the fire.

     * Each pair have been since married, and live not more
     happily than I wish them. Fulton still lives in Ned’s house
     at the Cross-roads.

“I wondher,” said Andy Morrow, “what makes Joe M’Crea throw down that
fine ould castle of his, in Aughentain?”

“I’m tould,” said M’Roarkin, “that he expects money; for they say
there’s a lot of it buried somewhere about the same building.”

“Jist as much as there’s in my wig,” replied Shane Fadh, “and there’s
ne’er a pocket to it yet. Why, bless your sowl, how could there be money
in it, whin the last man of the Grameses that owned it--I mane of the
ould stock, afore it went into Lord Mountjoy’s hands--sould it out, ran
through the money, and died begging afther’? Did none of you ever hear
of--

     ‘---- ---- ---- ---- Ould John Grame,
     That swally’d the castle of Aughentain?’”

“That was long afore my time,” said the poacher; “but I know that the
rabbit-burrow between that and Jack Appleden’s garden will soon be run
out.”

“Your time!” responded Shane Fadh, with contempt; “ay, and your father’s
afore you: my father doesn’t remimber more nor seeing his funeral, and
a merry one it was; for my grandfather, and some of them that had a
respect for the family and his forbarers, if they hadn’t it for himself,
made up as much money among them as berried him dacently any how,--ay,
and gave him a rousin’ wake into the bargain, with lashins of whiskey,
stout beer, and ale; for in them times--God be with them every farmer
brewed his own ale and beer;--more betoken, that one pint of it was
worth a keg of this wash of yours, Ned.”

“Wasn’t it he that used to _appear?_” inquired M’Roarkin.

“Sure enough he did, Tom.”

“Lord save us,” said Nancy, “what could trouble him, I dunna?”

“Why,” continued Shane Fadh, “some said one thing, and some another;
but the upshot of it was this: when the last of the Grameses sould the
estate, castle, and all, it seems he didn’t resave all the purchase
money; so, afther he had spint what he got, he applied to the purchaser
for the remainder--him that the Mountjoy family bought it from; but it
seems he didn’t draw up writings, or sell it according to law, so that
the thief o’ the world baffled him from day to day, and wouldn’t give
him a penny--bekase he knew, the blaggard, that the Square was then as
poor as a church mouse, and hadn’t money enough to thry it at law with
him; but the Square was always a simple asy-going man. One day he went
to this fellow, riding on an ould garran, with a shoe loose--the only
baste he had in the world--and axed him, for God’s sake, to give him of
what he owed him, if it was ever so little; ‘for,’ says he, ‘I huve
not as much money betune me and death as will get a set of shoes for my
horse.’”

“‘Well,’ says the nager, ‘if-you’re not able to keep your horse shod, I
would jist recommend you to sell him, and thin his shoes won’t cost you
any thing,’ says he.

“The ould Square went away with tears in his eyes,--for he loved the
poor brute, bekase they wor the two last branches of the ould stock.”

“Why,” inquired M’Kinley, in his small squeaking voice, “was the horse
related to the family?”

“I didn’t say he was related to the fam----

“Get out, you _shingaun!_” (* Fairy-like, or connected to the fairies)
returned the old man, perceiving by the laugh that now went round, the
sly tendency of the question--“no, nor to your family either, for he
had nothing of the ass in him--eh? will you put that in your pocket, my
little _skinadhre_ (* A thin, fleshless, stunted person.)--ha! ha! ha!”

The laugh was now turned against M’Kinley.

Shane Fadh proceeded: “The ould Square, as I was tellin yez, cried to
find himself an’ the poor baste so dissolute; but when he had gone a bit
from the fellow, he comes back to the vagabone--‘Now,’ says he, ‘mind my
words--if you happen to live afther me, you need never expect a night’s
pace; for I here make a serous an’ solemn vow, that as long as my
property’s in your possession, or in any of your seed, breed, or
gineration’s, I’ll never give over hauntin’ you an’ them, till you’ll
rue to the back-bone your dishonesty an’ chathery to me an’ this poor
baste, that hasn’t a shoe to his foot.’

“‘Well,’ says the nager, ‘I’ll take chance of that, any way.’”

“I’m tould, Shane,” observed the poacher, “that the Square was a fine
man in his time, that wouldn’t put up with sich treatment from anybody.”

“Ay, but he was ould now,” Shane replied, “and too wakely to fight.--A
fine man, Bill!--he was the finest man, ‘cepting ould Square Storey,
that ever was in this counthry. I hard my granfather often say that he
was six feet four, and made in proportion--a handsome, black-a-vis’d
man, with great dark whiskers. Well! he spent money like sklates, and so
he died miserable--but had a merry birrel, as I said.”

“But,” inquired Nancy, “did he ever appear to the rogue that chated
him?”

“Every night in the year, Nancy, exceptin’ Sundays; and what was more,
the horse along with him--for he used to come ridin’ at midnight upon
the same garran; and it was no matther what place or company the other
‘ud be in, the ould Square would come reglarly, and crave him for what
he owed him.”

“So it appears that horses have sowls,” observed M’Roarkin,
philosophically, giving, at the same time, a cynical chuckle at the
sarcasm contained in his own conceit.

“Whether they have sowls or bodies,” replied the narrator, “what I’m
tellin’ you is truth; every night in the year the ould chap would come
for what was indue him; find as the two went along, the noise of the
loose shoe upon the horse would be hard rattlin’, and seen knockin’ the
fire out of the stones, by the neighbors and the thief that chated him,
even before the Square would appeal at all at all.”

“Oh, wurrah!” exclaimed Nancy, shuddering with terror. “I wouldn’t take
anything and be out now on the _Drumfarrar road_*, and nobody with me
but myself.”

     *A lonely mountain-road, said to have been haunted. It is on
     this road that the coffin scenes mentioned in the Party
     fight and Funeral is laid.

“I think if you wor,” said M’Kinley, “the light weights and short
measures would be comin’ acrass your conscience.”

“No, in troth, Alick, wouldn’t they; but may be if you wor, the promise
you broke to Sally Mitchell might trouble you a bit: at any rate, I’ve a
prayer, and if I only repated it wanst, I mightn’t be afeard of all the
divils in hell.”

“Throth, but it’s worth havin’, Nancy: where did you get it?” asked
M’Kinley.

“Hould your wicked tongue, you thief of a heretic,” said Nancy,
laughing, “when will _you_ larn anything that’s good? I got it from one
that wouldn’t have it if it _wasn’t_ good--Darby M’Murt, the pilgrim,
since you must know.”

“Whisht!” said Frayne: “upon my word, I blieve the old Square’s comin’
to pay tis a visit; does any of yez hear a horse trottin’ with a shoe
loose?”


“I sartinly hear it,” observed Andy Morrow.

“And I,” said Ned himself.

There was now a general pause, and in the silence a horse, proceeding
from the moors in the direction of the house, was distinctly heard;
and nothing could be less problematical than that one of his shoes was
loose.

“Boys, take care of yourselves,” said Shane Fadh, “if the Square comes,
he won’t be a pleasant customer--he was a terrible fellow in his day:
I’ll hould goold to silver that he’ll have the smell of brimstone about
him.”

“Nancy, where’s your prayer now?” said M’Kinley, with a grin: “I think
you had betther out with it, and thry if it keeps this old brimstone
Square on the wrong side of the house.”

“Behave yourself, Alick; it’s a shame for you to be sich a hardened
crathur: upon my sannies, I blieve your afeard of neither God nor the
divil--the Lord purtect and guard us from the dirty baste!”

“You mane particklarly them that uses short measures and light weights,”
 rejoined M’Kinley.

There was another pause, for the horseman was within a few perches of
the crossroads. At this moment an unusual gust of wind, accompanied by
torrents of rain, burst against the house with a violence that made
its ribs creak; and the stranger’s horse, the shoe still clanking,
was distinctly heard to turn in from the road to Ned’s door, where it
stopped, and the next moment a loud knocking intimated the horseman’s
intention to enter. The company now looked at each other, as if
uncertain what to do. Nancy herself grew pale, and, in the agitation of
the moment, forgot to think of her protecting prayer. Biddy and Bessy
Connolly started from the settle on which they had been sitting with
their sweethearts, and sprung beside their uncle, on the hob. The
stranger was still knocking with great violence, yet there was no
disposition among the company to admit him, notwithstanding the severity
of the night--blowing, as it really did, a perfect hurricane. At length
a sheet of lightning flashed through the house, followed by an amazing
loud clap of thunder; while, with a sudden push from without, the door
gave way, and in stalked a personage Whose stature was at least six
feet four, with dark eyes and complexion, and coal-black whiskers of an
enormous size, the very image of the Squire they had been describing. He
was dressed in a long black surtout, which him appear even taller than
he actually was, had a pair of heavy boots upon and carried a tremendous
whip, large enough to fell an ox. He was in a rage on entering; and
the heavy, dark, close-knit-brows, from beneath which a pair of eyes,
equally black, shot actual fire, whilst the Turk-like whiskers, which
curled themselves up, as it were, in sympathy with his fury, joined to
his towering height, gave him altogether, when we consider the frame of
mind in which he found the company, an appalling and almost supernatural
appearance.

“Confound you, for a knot of lazy scoundrels,” exclaimed the stranger,
“why do you sit here so calmly, while any being craves admittance on
such a night as this? Here, you lubber in the corner, with a pipe in
your mouth, come and put up this horse of mine until the night settles.”

“May the blessed mother purtect us!” exclaimed Nancy, in a whisper,
to Andy Morrow, “if I blieve he’s a right thing!--would it be the ould
Square? Did you ever set your eyes upon sich a”--

“Will you bestir yourself, you boor, and’ not keep my horse and saddle
out under such a torrent?” he cried, “otherwise I must only bring him
into the house, and then you may say for once that you’ve had the devil
under your roof.”

“Paddy Smith, you lazy spalpeen,” said Nancy, winking at Ned to
have nothing to do with the horse, “why don’t you fly and put up the
gintleman’s horse? And you, Atty, avourneen, jist go out with him, and
hould the candle while he’s doin’ it: be quick now, and I’ll give you
glasses a-piece when you come in.”

“Let them put him up quickly; but I say, you Caliban,” added the
stranger, addressing Smith, “don’t be rash about him except you can bear
fire and brimstone; get him, at all events, a good feed of oats. Poor
Satan!” he continued, patting the horse’s head, which was now within the
door, “you’ve had a hard night of it, my poor Satan, as well as myself.
That’s my dark spirit--my brave chuck, that fears neither man nor
devil.”

This language was by no means calculated to allay the suspicions of
those who were present, particularly of Nancy and her two nieces. Ned
sat in astonishment, with the pipe in his hand, which he had, in the
surprise of the moment, taken from his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the
stranger, and his mouth open. The latter noticed him, and stretching
over the heads of the circle, tapped him on the shoulder with his
whip:--

“I have a few words to say to you, sir,” he said.

“To me, your honor!” exclaimed Ned, without stirring, however.

“Yes,” replied the other, “but you seem to be fastened to your seat:
come this way.”

“By all manner of manes, sir,” said Ned, starting up, and going over to
the dresser, against which the stranger stood.

When the latter had got him there, he very coolly walked up, and secured
Ned’s comfortable seat on the hob, at the same time observing--

“You hadn’t the manners to ask me to sit down; but I always make it a
point of conscience to take care of myself, landlord.”

There was not a man about the fire who did not stand up, as if struck
with a sudden recollection, and offer him a seat.

“No,” said he, “thank you, my good fellows, I am very well as it is: I
suppose, mistress, you are the landlady,” addressing Nancy; “if you
be, I’ll thank you to bring me a gill of your best whiskey,--your best,
mind. Let it be as strong as an evil spirit let loose, and as hot as
fire; for it can’t be a jot too ardent such a night as this, for a being
that rides the devil.”

Nancy started up instinctively, exclaiming, “Indeed, plase your honor’s
reverence, I am the landlady, as you say, sir, sure enough; but, the
Lawk save and guard us! won’t a gallon of raw whiskey be too much for
one man to drink?”

“A gallon! I only said a gill, my good hostess; bring me a gill--but I
forget--I believe you have no such measure in this country; bring me a
pint, then.”

Nancy now went into the bar, whither she gave Ned a wink to follow her;
and truly was glad of an opportunity of escaping from the presence of
the visitor. When there, she ejaculated--

“May the holy Mother keep and guard us, Ned, but I’m afeard that’s no
Christian crathur, at all at all! Arrah, Ned, aroon, would he be that
ould Square Grame, that Shane Fadh, maybe, angered, by spakin’ of him?”

“Troth,” said Ned, “myself doesn’t know what he is; he bates any mortal
I ever seen.”

“Well, hould agra! I have it: we’ll see whether he’ll drink this or not,
any how.”

“Why, what’s that you’re doin’?” asked Ned.

“Jist,” replied Nancy, “mixin’ the smallest taste in the world of holy
wather with the whiskey, and if he drinks that, you know he can be
nothing that’s bad.” *

     * The efficacy of holy water in all Roman Catholic countries,
     but especially in Ireland, is supposed to be very great. It
     is kept in the house, or, in certain cases, about the
     person, as a safeguard against evil spirits, fairies, or
     sickness. It is also used to allay storms and quench
     conflagrations; and when an Irishman or Irishwoman is about
     to go a journey, commence labor or enter upon any other
     important undertaking, the person is sure to be sprinkled
     with holy water, under the hope that the journey or
     undertaking will prosper.

Nancy, however, did not perceive that the trepidation of her hand
was such as to incapacitate her from making nice distinctions in the
admixture. She now brought the spirits to the stranger, who no sooner
took a mouthful of it, than he immediately stopped it on its passage,
and fixing his eyes earnestly on herself, squirted it into the fire, and
the next moment the whiskey was in a blaze that seemed likely to set the
chimney in flames.

“Why, my honest hostess,” he exclaimed, “do you give this to me for
whiskey? Confound me, but two-thirds of it is water; and I have no
notion to pay for water when I want spirits: have the goodness to
exchange this, and get me some better stuff, if you have it.”

He again put the jug to his mouth, and having taken a little, swallowed
it:--“Why, I tell you, woman, you must have made some mistake; one-half
of it is water.”

Now, Nancy, from the moment he refused to swallow the liquor, had been
lock-jawed; the fact was, she thought that the devil himself, or old
Squire Graham, had got under her roof; and she stood behind Ned, who
was nearly as terrified as herself, with her hands raised, her tongue
clinging to the roof of her mouth, and the perspiration falling from her
pale face in large drops. But as soon as she saw him swallow a portion
of that liquid, which she deemed beyond the deglutition of ghost
or devil, she instantly revived--her tongue resumed its accustomed
office--her courage, as well as her good-humor, returned, and she went
up to him with great confidence, saying,

“Why, then, your Reverence’s honor, maybe I did make a bit of a mistake,
sir”--taking up the jug, and tasting its contents: “Hut! bad scran to
me, but I did, beggin’ your honor’s pardon; how-an-diver, I’ll soon
rightify that, your Reverence.”

So saying, she went and brought him a pint of the stoutest the house
afforded. The stranger drank a glass of it, and then ordered hot water
and sugar, adding--

“My honest friends here about the fire will have no objection to help me
with this; but, on second consideration, you had better get us another
quart, that as the night is cold, we may have a jorum at this pleasant
fire, that will do our hearts good; and this pretty girl here,”
 addressing Biddy, who really deserved the epithet, “will sit beside me,
and give us a song.”

It was surprising what an effect the punch even in perspective, had upon
the visual organs of the company; second-sight was rather its precursor
than its attendant; for, with intuitive penetration, they now discovered
various good qualities in his ghost-ship, that had hitherto been beyond
their ken; and those very personal properties, which before struck them
dumb with terror, already called forth their applause.

“What a fine man he is!” one would whisper, loud enough, however, to be
heard by the object of his panegyric.

“He is, indeed, and a rale gintleman,” another would respond in the same
key.

“Hut! he’s none of your proud, stingy upsthart bodagahs*--none of your
beggarly half-sirs*,” a third would remark: “he’s the dacent thing
entirely--you see he hasn’t his heart in a thrifle.”

     * A person vulgar, but rich, without any pretensions but
     those of wealth to the character of a gentleman; a churl.
     Half-sir; the same as above.

“And so sign’s on him,” a fourth would add, with comic gravity, “he
wasn’t bred to shabbiness, as you may know by his fine behavior and his
big whiskers.”

When the punch was made, and the kitchen-table placed endwise towards
the fire, the stranger, finding himself very comfortable, inquired if he
could be accommodated with a bed and supper, to which Nancy replied in
the affirmative.

“Then, in that case,” said he, “I will be your guest for the night.”

Shane Fadh now took courage to repeat the story of old Squire Graham and
his horse with the loose shoe; informing the stranger, at the same time,
of the singular likeness which he bore to the subject of the story, both
in face and size, and dwelling upon the remarkable coincidence in the
time and manner of his approach.

“Tut, man!” said the stranger, “a far more extraordinary adventure
happened to one of my father’s tenants, which, if none of you have any
objection, I will relate.”

There was a buzz of approbation at this; and they all thanked his
honor, expressing the strongest desire to hear his story. He was just
proceeding to gratify them, when another rap came to the door, and,
before any of the inmates had time to open it, Father Ned Deleery and
his curate made their appearance, having been on their way home from a
conference held in the town of ----, eighteen miles from the scene of
our present story.

It may be right here to inform the reader, that about two hundred yards
from Ned’s home stood a place of Roman Catholic worship, called “the
Forth,” * from the resemblance it bore to the _Forts_ or _Baths_, so
common in Ireland. It was a small green, perfectly circular, and about
twenty yards in diameter. Around it grew a row of old overspreading
hawthorns, whose branches formed a canopy that almost shaded it from sun
and storm. Its area was encompassed by tiers of seats, one raised above
another, and covered with the flowery grass. On these the congregation
used to sit--the young men chatting or ogling their sweethearts on the
opposite side; the old ones in little groups, discussing the politics of
the day, as retailed by Mick M’Caffry.** the politician; while, up near
the altar, hemmed in by a ring of old men and women, you might perceive
a _voteen_, repeating some new prayer or choice piece of devotion--or
some other, in a similar circle, perusing, in a loud voice. Dr.
Gallagher’s Irish Sermons, Pastorini’s History of the Christian Church,
or Columbkill’s Prophecy--and, perhaps, a strolling pilgrim, the centre
of a third collection, singing the _Dies irae_, in Latin, or the Hermit
of Killarney, in English.

     * This very beautiful but simple place of worship does not
     now exist. On its site is now erected a Roman Catholic
     chapel.

     ** Mick was also a schoolmaster, and the most celebrated
     village politician of his day. Every Sunday found him
     engaged as in the text.

At the extremity of this little circle was a plain altar of wood,
covered with a little thatched shed, under which the priest celebrated
mass; but before the performance of this ceremony, a large multitude
usually assembled opposite Ned’s shop-door, at the cross-roads. This
crowd consisted of such as wanted to buy tobacco, candles, soap, potash,
and such other groceries as the peasantry remote from market-towns
require. After mass, the public-house was filled to the door-posts, with
those who wished to get a sample of Nancy’s _Iska-behagh_* and many
a time has little Father Ned himself, of a frosty day, after having
performed mass with a celerity highly agreeable to his auditory, come in
to Nancy, nearly frost-bitten, to get his breakfast, and a toothful of
mountain dew to drive the cold out of his stomach.

     _Usquebaugh_--literally, “water of life.”

The fact is, that Father Deleery made himself quite at home at Ned’s
without any reference to Nancy’s saving habits; the consequence was,
that her welcome to him was extremely sincere--“from the teeth out.”
 Father Ned saw perfectly through her assumed heartiness of manner, but
acted as if the contrary was the case; Nancy understood him also, and
with an intention of making up by complaisance for their niggardliness
in other respects, was a perfect honeycomb. This state of
cross-purposes, however, could not last long; neither did it. Father Ned
never paid, and Nancy never gave credit; so, at length, they came to an
open rupture; she threatened to process him for what he owed her, and
he, in return, threatened to remove the congregation from “The Forth”
 to Ballymagowan bridge, where he intended to set up his nephew in the
“public line,” to the ruin of Nancy’s flourishing establishment.

“Father Ned,” said Nancy, “I’m a hardworking, honest woman, and I don’t
see why my substance is to be wasted by your Reverence when you won’t
pay for it.”

“And do you forget,” Father Ned would reply, “that it’s me that
brings you your custom? Don’t you know that if I remove my flock to
Ballymagowan, you’ll soon sing to another tune? so lay that to your
heart.”

“Troth, I know that whatever I get I’m obliged to pay for it; and I
think every man should do the same, Father Ned. You must get a hank of
yarn from me, and a bushel or two of oats from Ned, and your riglar dues
along with all; but, avourneen, it’s yourself that won’t pay a penny
when you can help it.”

“Salvation to me, but you’d skin a flint!”

“Well, if I would, I pay my debts first.”

“You do?”

“Yes, troth, do I.”

“Why then that’s more than you’ll be able to do long, plase the fates.”

“If all my customers wor like your Reverence, it is.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Nancy, I often threatened to take the
congregation from ‘The Forth,’ and I’ll do it--if I don’t, may I never
sup sorrow!”

Big with such a threat, Father Ned retired. The apprehensions of Nancy
on this point, however, were more serious than she was willing to
acknowledge. This dispute took place a few days before the night in
question.

Father Ned was a little man, with a red face, slender legs, and
flat feet; he was usually cased in a pair of ribbed minister’s grey
small-clothes, with leggings of the same material. His coat, which was
much too short, rather resembled a jerkin, and gave him altogether an
appearance very much at variance with an idea of personal gravity or
reverence. Over this dress he wore in winter, a dark great-coat, with
high collar, that buttoned across his face, showing only the point, of
his red nose; so that, when riding or walking, his hat rested more upon
the collar of his coat than upon his head.

The curate was a tall, raw-boned young man, with high jutting
cheek-bones, low forehead, and close knees; to his shoulders, which were
very high, hung a pair of long bony arms, whose motions seemed rather
the effect of machinery than volition. His hair, which was a bad black,
was cropped close, and trimmed across his eye-brows, like that of a
Methodist preacher; the small-clothes he wore were of the same web which
had produced Father Ned’s, and his body-coat was a dark blue, with black
buttons. Each wore a pair of gray woollen mittens.

“There, Pether,” said Father Ned, as he entered, “hook my bridle along
with your own, as your hand is in--God save all here! Paddy Smith,
ma bouchal, put these horses in the stable, till we dry ourselves a
bit--Father Pether and I.”

“Musha, but you’re both welcome,” said Nancy, wishing to wipe out the
effects of the last tift with Father Ned, by the assistance of the
stranger’s punch; “will ye bounce, ye spalpeens, and let them to the
fire? Father Ned, you’re dhreepin’ with the rain; and, Father Pether,
avourneen, you’re wet to the skin, too.”

“Troth, and he is, Nancy, and a little bit farther, if you knew but all.
Mr. Morrow, how do you do, sir?--And--eh?--Who’s this we’ve got in the
corner? A gintleman, boys, if cloth can make one! Mr. Morrow, introduce
me.”

“Indeed, Father Ned, I hav’nt the pleasure of knowing the gintleman
myself.”

“Well, no matter--come up, Pether. Sir, I have the honor of introducing
you to my curate and coadjutor, the Reverend Pether M’Clatchaghan, and
to myself, his excellent friend, but spiritual superior, the Reverend
Edward Deleery, Roman Catholic Rector of this highly respectable and
extensive parish; and I have further the pleasure,” he continued, taking
up Andy Morrow’s Punch, “of drinking your very good health, sir.”

“And I have the honor,” returned the stranger, rising up, and diving
his head among the flitches of bacon that hung in the chimney, “of
introducing you and the Rev. Mr. M’--M’--M’----”

“Clatchagan, sir,” subjoined Father Ned.

“Peter M’Illclatchagan, to Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexandrinus.”

“By my word, sir, but it’s a good and appropriate name, sure enough,”
 said Father Ned, surveying his enormous length; “success to me but
you’re an Alexandrine from head to foot--non solum Longinus, sed
Alexandrinus.”

“You’re wrong, sir, in the Latin,” said Father Peter.

“Prove it, Peter--prove it.”

“It should be non tantum, sir.”

“By what rule Pether?”

“Why, sir, there’s a phrase in Corderius’s Colloquies that I could
condimn you from, if I had the book.”

“Pether, you think you’re a scholar, and, to do you justice, you’re cute
enough sometimes; but, Pether, you didn’t travel for it, as I did--nor
were you obliged to lep out of a college windy in Paris, at the time of
the French Revolution, for your larning, as I was: not you, man, you ate
the king’s mutton comfortably at home in Maynooth, instead of travelling
like your betters.”

“I appale to this gintleman,” said Father Peter turning to the stranger.
“Are you a classical scholar, sir--that is, do you understand Latin?”

“What kind?” demanded the stranger dryly.

“If you have read Corderius’s Colloquies, it will do,” said Father
Peter.

“No, sir,” replied the other, “but I have read his commentator,
_Bardolphus_, who wrote a treatise upon the _Nasus Rubricundus_ of the
ancients.”

“Well, sir, if you did, it’s probable that you may be able to understand
our dispute, so”--

“Peter, I’m afeard you’ve got into the wrong box; for I say he’s no
chicken that’s read _Nasus Rubricundus_, I can tell you that; I had my
own trouble with it: but, at any rate, will you take your punch, man
alive, and don’t bother us with your Latin?”

“I beg your pardon, Father Ned: I insist that. I’m right; and I’ll
convince you that you’re wrong, if God spares me to see Corderius
to-morrow.”

“Very well then, Pether, if you’re to decide it to-morrow, let us have
no more of it tonight.”

During this conversation between the two reverend worthies, the group
around the fire were utterly astonished at the erudition displayed in
this learned dispute.

“Well, to be sure, larnin’s a great thing, entirely,” said M’Roarkin,
aside, to Shane Fadh.

“Ah, Tom, there’s nothing like it: well, any way, it’s wonderful what
they know!”

“Indeed it is, Shane--and in so short a time, too! Sure, it’s not more
nor five or six years since Father Pether there used to be digging
praties on the one ridge with myself--by the same token, an excellent
spadesman he was--and now he knows more nor all the Protestant parsons
in the Diocy.”

“Why, how could they know any thing, when they don’t belong to the thrue
church?” said Shane.

“Thrue for you, Shane,” replied M’Roaran; “I disremimbered that
clincher.”

This discourse ran parallel with the dispute between the two priests,
but in so low a tone as not to reach the ears of the classical
champions, who would have ill-brooked this eulogium upon Father Peter’s
agricultural talent.

“Don’t bother us, Pether, with your arguing to-night,” said Father
Ned, “it’s enough for you to be seven days in the week at your
disputations.--Sir, I drink to our better acquaintance.”

“With all my heart, sir,” replied the stranger.

“Father Ned,” said Nancy, “the gintleman was going to tell us a sthrange
story, sir, and maybe your Reverence would wish to hear it, docthor?”

“Certainly, Nancy, we’ll be very happy to hear any story the gintleman
may plase to tell us; but, Nancy, achora, before he begins, what if
you’d just fry a slice or two of that glorious flitch, hanging over his
head, in the corner?--that, and about six eggs, Nancy, and you’ll have
the priest’s blessing, gratis.”

“Why, Father Ned, it’s too fresh, entirely--sure it’s not a week hanging
yet.

“Sorra matter, Nancy dheelish, we’ll take with all that--just try your
hand at a slice of it. I rode eighteen miles since I dined, and I feel a
craving, Nancy, a _whacuum_ in my stomach, that’s rather troublesome.”

“To be sure, Father Ned, you must get a slice, with all the veins in my
heart; but I thought maybe you wouldn’t like it so fresh: but what on
earth will we do for eggs? for there’s not an egg under the roof with
me.”

“Biddy, a hagur,” said Father Ned, “just slip out to Molshy Johnson,
and tell her to send me six eggs for a rasher, by the same token that
I heard two or three hens cackling in the byre, as I was going to
conference this morning.”

“Well, Docthor,” said Pat Frayne, when Biddy had been gone some time, on
which embassy she delayed longer than the priest’s judgment, influenced
by the cravings of his stomach, calculated to be necessary,--“Well,
Docthor, I often pity you, for fasting so long; I’m sure, I dunna how
you can stand it, at all, at all.”

“Troth, and you may well wonder, Pat; but we have that to support us,
that you, or any one like you, know nothing about--inward support,
Pat--inward support.”

“Only for that, Father Ned,” said Shane Fadh, “I suppose you could never
get through with it.”

“Very right, Shane--very right: only for it, we never could do.--What
the dickens is keeping this girl with the eggs?--why she might be at Mr.
Morrow’s, here, since. By the way, Mr. Morrow,” he continued, laughing,
“you must come over to our church: you’re a good neighbor, and a worthy
fellow, and it’s a thousand pities you should be sent down.”

“Why, Docthor,” said Andy, “do you really believe I’ll go downwards?”

“Ah, Mr. Morrow, don’t ask me that question--out of the pale, you
know--out of the pale.”

“Then you think, sir, there’s no chance for me, at all?” said Andy,
smiling.

“Not the laste, Andy, you must go this way,” said Father Ned, striking
the floor with the butt end of his whip, and winking--“to the lower
raigons; and, upon my knowledge, to tell you the truth, I’m sorry for
it, for you’re a worthy fellow.”

“Ah, Docthor,” said Ned, “it’s a great thing entirely to be born of the
true church--one’s always sure, then.”

“Ay, ay; you may say that, Ned,” returned the priest, “come or go what
will, a man’s always safe at the long run, except he dies without his
clargy.--Shane, hand me the jug, if you please.--Where did you get this
stuff, Nancy?--faith, it’s excellent.”

“You forget, Father Ned, that that’s a secret.----But here’s Biddy with
the eggs, and now you’ll have your rasher in no time.”

When the two clergymen had discussed the rashers and eggs, and while the
happy group were making themselves intimately acquainted with a fresh
jug of punch, as it circulated round the table--

“Now, sir,” said Father Ned to the stranger, “we’ll hear your story with
the greatest satisfaction possible; but I think you might charge your
tumbler before you set to it.”

When the stranger had complied with this last hint, “Well, gentlemen,”
 said he, “as I am rather fatigued, will you excuse me for the position
I am about to occupy, which is simply to stretch myself along the hob
here, with my head upon the straw hassoch? and if you have no objection
to that, I will relate the story.”

To this, of course, a general assent was given. When he was stretched
completely at his ease--

“Well, upon my veracity,” observed Father Peter, “the gentleman’s
supernaturally long.”

“Yes, Pether,” replied Father Ned, “but observe his
position--_Polysyllaba cuncta supina_, as Psorody says.--Arrah,
salvation to me but you’re a dull man, afther all!--but we’re
interrupting the gentleman. Sir, go on, if you please, with your story.”

“Give me a few minutes,” said he, “until I recollect the particulars.”

He accordingly continued quiescent for two or three minutes more,
apparently arranging the materials of his intended narration, and then
commenced to gratify the eager expectations of his auditory, by emitting
those nasal enunciations which are the usual accompaniments of sleep!

“Why, bad luck to the morsel of ‘im but’s asleep,” said Ned; “Lord
pardon me for swearin’ in your Reverence’s presence.”

“That’s certainly the language of a sleeping man,” replied Father Ned,
“but there might have been a little more respect than all that snoring
comes to. Your health, boys.”

The stranger had now wound up his nasal organ to a high pitch, after
which he commenced again with somewhat of a lower and finer tone.

“He’s beginning a new paragraph,” observed Father Peter with a smile at
the joke.

“Not at all,” said Father Ned, “he’s turning the tune; don’t you
perceive that he’s snoring ‘God save the King,’ in the key of _bass
relievo?_”

“I’m no judge of instrumental music, as you are,” said the curate, “but
I think it’s liker the ‘Dead March of Saul,’ than ‘God save the King;’
however, if you be right, the gentleman certainly snores in a truly
loyal strain.”

“That,” said little M’Roarkin, “is liker the Swine’s melody, or the
Bedfordshire hornpipe--he--he--he!”

“The poor gintleman’s tired,” observed Nancy, “afther a hard day’s
thravelling.”

“I dare say he is,” said Father Ned, in the sincere hospitality of his
country; “at all events, take care of him, Nancy, he’s a stranger,
and get the best supper you can for him--he appears to be a truly
respectable and well-bred man.”

“I think,” said M’Kinley, with a comical grin, “you might know that by
his high-flown manner of sleeping--he snores very politely, and like a
gentleman, all out.”

“Well done, Alick,” said the priest, laughing; “go home, boys, it’s near
bed-time; Paddy, ma bouchal, are the horses ready?”

“They’ll be at the door in a jiffy, your Reverence,” said Paddy going
out.

In the course of a few minutes, he returned, exclaiming, “Why, thin, is
it thinkin’ to venthur out sich a night as it’s comin’ on yer Reverences
would be? and it plashin’ as if it came out of methers! Sure the life
would be dhrownded out of both of ye, and yees might colch a faver into
the bargain.”

“Sit down, gintlemen,” said Ned; “sit down, Father Ned, you and Father
Pether--we’ll have another tumbler; and, as it’s my turn to tell a
story, I’ll give yez something, amuse yez,--the best I can, and, you all
know, who can do more?”

“Very right, Ned; but let us see”--replied father Ned, putting his head
out of the door to ascertain what the night did; “come, pether, it’s
good to be on the safe side of any house in such a storm; we must only
content ourselves until it gets fair. Now, Ned, go on with your story,
and let it be as pleasant as possible.”

“Never fear, your Reverence,” replied Ned--“here goes--and healths
a-piece to begin with.”



THE THREE TASKS.


“Every person in the parish knows the purty knoll that rises above the
Routing Burn, some few miles from the renowned town of Knockimdowny,
which, as all the world must allow, wants only houses and inhabitants
to be as big a place as the great town of Dublin itself. At the foot of
this little hill, just under the shelter of a dacent pebble of a rock,
something above the bulk of half a dozen churches, one would be apt to
see--if they knew how to look sharp, otherwise they mightn’t be able to
make it out from the gray rock above it, except by the smoke that ris
from the chimbley--Nancy Magennis’s little cabin, snug and cosey with
its corrag* or ould man of branches, standing on the windy side of the
door, to keep away the blast. Upon my word, it was a dacent little
residence in its own way, and so was Nancy herself, for that matther;
for, though a poor widdy, she was very _punctwell_ in paying for Jack’s
schooling, as I often heard ould Terry M’Phaudeen say, who told me the
story. Jack, indeed, grew up a fine slip; and for hurling, foot-ball
playing, and lepping, hadn’t his likes in the five quarters of the
parish. It’s he that knew how to handle a spade and a raping-hook, and
what was betther nor all that, he was kind and tindher to his poor ould
mother, and would let her want for nothing. Before he’d go to his day’s
work in the morning, he’d be sure to bring home from the clear-spring
well that ran out of the other side of the rock, a pitcher of water to
serve her for the day; nor would he forget to bring in a good creel
of turf from the snug little peat-sack that stood thatched with rushes
before the door, and leave it in the corner, beside the fire; so that
she had nothing to do but put over her hand, without rising off of her
sate, and put down a sod when she wanted it.

     *The _Corrag_ is a roll of branches tied together when green
     and used for the purposes mentioned the story. It is six
     feet high, and much thicker than a sack, and is changed to
     either side of the door according to the direction from
     which the wind blows.

“Nancy, on her part, kept Jack very clane and comfortable; his linen,
though coorse, was always a good color, his working clothes tidily
mended at all times; and when he’d have occasion to put on his good coat
to work in for the first time, Nancy would sew on the fore-part of each
sleeve a stout patch of ould cloth, to keep them from being worn by the
spade; so that when she’d rip these off them every Saturday night, they
would look as new and fresh as if he hadn’t been working in them at all,
at all.

“Then when Jack came home in the winter nights, it would do your heart
good to see Nancy sitting at her wheel, singing, ‘_Stachan Varagah_,’
or ‘_Peggy Na Laveen_,’ beside a purty clear fire, with a small pot of
_murphys_ boiling on it for their supper, or laid up in a wooden
dish, comfortably covered with a clane praskeen on the well-swept
hearth-stone; whilst the quiet, dancing blaze might be seen blinking in
the nice earthen plates and dishes that stood over against the side-wall
of the house. Just before the fire you might see Jack’s stool waiting
for him to come home; and on the other side, the brown cat washing her
face with her paws, or sitting beside the dog that lay asleep, quite
happy and continted, purring her song, and now and then looking over at
Nancy, with her eyes half-shut, as much as to say, ‘Catch a happier pair
nor we are, Nancy, if you can.’

“Sitting quietly on the roost above the door, were Dicky the cock, and
half-a-dozen hens, that kept this honest pair in eggs and _egg-milk_ for
the best part of the year, besides enabling Nancy to sell two or three
clutches of March-birds every season, to help to buy wool for Jack’s
big-coat, and her own gray-beard gown and striped red and blue
petticoat.

“To make a long story short--No two could be more comfortable,
considering every thing. But, indeed, Jack was always obsarved to have
a dacent ginteel turn with him; for he’d scorn to see a bad gown on his
mother, or a broken Sunday coat on himself; and instead of drinking his
little earning in a shebeen-house, and then eating his praties dry, he’d
take care to have something to kitchen* them; so that he was not only
snug and dacent of a Sunday, regarding wearables, but so well-fed and
rosy, that a point of a rush would take a drop of blood out of his
cheek.** Then he was the comeliest and best-looking young man in the
parish, could tell lots of droll stories, and sing scores of merry songs
that would make you split your sides with downright laughing; and when
a wake or a dance would happen to be in the neighborhood, maybe there
wouldn’t be many a sly look from the purty girls for pleasant Jack
Magennis!

     * The straits to which the poor Irish are put for what is
     termed kitchen--that is some liquid that enables them to
     dilute and swallow the dry potato--are grievous to think of.
     An Irishman in his miserable cabin will often feel glad to
     have salt and water in which to dip it, but that alluded to
     in the text is absolute comfort. Egg milk is made as
     follows:--A measure of water is put down suited to the
     number of the family; the poor woman then takes the proper
     number of eggs, which she beats up, and, when the water is
     boiling, pours it in, stirring it well for a couple of
     minutes. It is then made, and handed round in wooden
     noggins, every one salting for themselves. In color it
     resembles milk, which accounts for its name.

     Our readers must have heard of the old and well known luxury
     of “potatoes and point,” which, humorous as it is, scarcely
     falls short of the truth. An Irish family, of the cabin
     class, hangs up in the chimney a herring, or “small taste” of
     bacon, and as the national imagination is said to be strong,
     each individual points the potato he is going to eat at it,
     upon the principle, I suppose, of _crede et habes_. It is
     generally said that the act communicates the flavor of the
     herring or bacon, as the case may be, to the potato; and
     this is called “potatoes and point.”

     ** This proverb, which is always used as above, but without
     being confined in its application, to only one sex, is a
     general one in Ireland. In delicacy and beauty I think it
     inimitable.

“In this way lived Jack and his mother, as happy and continted as two
lords; except now and thin, that Jack would feel a little consarn for
not being able to lay past anything for the _sorefoot_,* or that might
enable him to think of marrying--for he was beginning to look about him
for a wife; and why not, to be sure? But he was prudent for all that,
and didn’t wish to bring a wife and small family into poverty and
hardship without means to support them, as too many do.

     * Accidents--future calamity--or old age.

“It was one fine, frosty, moonlight night--the sky was without a cloud,
and the stars all blinking that it would delight anybody’s heart to look
at them, when Jack was crassing a bog that lay a few fields beyant his
own cabin. He was just crooning the ‘_Humors of Glynn_’ to himself and
thinking that it was a very hard case that he couldn’t save anything at
all, at all, to help him to the wife, when, on coming down a bank in the
middle of the bog, he saw a dark-looking man leaning against a clamp of
turf, and a black dog, with a pipe of tobacky in his mouth, sitting at
his ase beside him, and he smoking as sober as a judge. Jack, however,
had a stout heart, bekase his conscience was clear, and, barring being
a little daunted, he wasn’t very much afeard. ‘Who is this coming down
towards us?’ said the black-favored man, as he saw Jack approaching
them. ‘It’s Jack Magennis,’ says the dog, making answer, and taking the
pipe out of his mouth with his right paw; and after puffing away the
smoke, and rubbing the end of it against his left leg, exactly as a
Christian (this day’s Friday, the Lord stand betune us and harm) would
do against his sleeve, giving it at the same time to his comrade--‘It’s
Jack Magennis,’ says the dog, ‘honest Widow Magennis’s dacent son.’ ‘The
very man,’ says the other, back to him, ‘that I’d wish to sarve out of a
thousand. Arrah, Jack Magennis, how is every tether-length of you?’ says
the old fellow, putting the _furrawn_* on him--‘and how is every bone
in your body, Jack, my darling? I’ll hould a thousand guineas,’ says he,
pointing to a great big bag that lay beside him, ‘and that’s only the
tenth part of what’s in this bag, Jack, that you’re just going to be in
luck to-night above all the nights in the year.’

     * That frank, cordial manner of address which brings
     strangers suddenly to intimacy.

“‘And may worse never happen you, Jack, my bouchal,’ says the dog,
putting in his tongue, then wagging his tail, and houlding out his paw
to shake hands with Jack.

“‘Gintlemen,’ says Jack, never minding to give the dog his hand, bekase
he heard it wasn’t safe to touch the likes of him--‘Gintlemen,’ says he,
‘ye’re sitting far from the fire this frosty night.’

“‘Why, that’s true, Jack,’ answers the ould fellow; ‘but if we’re
sitting far from the fire, we’re sitting very near the makins of it, man
alive.’ So, with this, he pulls the bag of goold over to him, that Jack
might know, by the jingle of the shiners, what was in it.

“‘Jack,’ says dark-face, ‘there’s some born with a silver ladle in their
mouth, and others with a wooden spoon; and if you’ll just sit down on
the one end of this clamp with me, and take a hand at the five and ten,’
pulling out, as he spoke, a deck of cards, ‘you may be a made man for
the remainder of your life.’

“‘Sir,’ says Jack, ‘with submission, both yourself and this cur--I
mane,’ says he, not wishing to give the dog offence, ‘both yourself
and this dacint gintleman with the tail and claws upon him, have
the advantage of me, in respect of knowing my name; for, if I don’t
mistake,’ says he, putting his hand to his caubeen, ‘I never had the
pleasure of seeing either of ye before.’

“‘Never mind that,’ says the dog, taking back the pipe from the other,
and clapping it in his mouth; ‘we’re both your well-wishers, anyhow, and
it’s now your own fault if you’re not a rich man.’

“Jack, by this time, was beginning to think that they might be afther
wishing to throw luck in his way; for he had often heard of men being
made up entirely by the fairies, till there was no end to their wealth.

“‘Jack,’ says the black man, ‘you had better be led by us for this
bout--upon the honor of a gintleman we wish you well: however, if you
don’t choose to take the ball at the right hop, another may; and you’re
welcome to toil all your life, and die a beggar after.’

“‘Upon my reputation, what he says is true, Jack,’ says the dog, in his
turn, ‘the lucky minute of your life is come: let it pass without doing
what them that wishes your mother’s son well desire you, and you’ll die
in a ditch.’

“‘And what am I to do,’ says Jack, ‘that’s to make me so rich all of a
sudden?’

“‘Why only to sit down, and take a game of cards with myself says
black-brow, ‘that’s all, and I’m sure its not much.’

“‘And what is it to be for?’ Jack inquires; ‘for I have no
money--tare-nation to the rap itself’s in my company.’

“‘Well, you have yourself,’ says the dog, putting up his fore-claw
along his nose, and winking at Jack; ‘you have yourself, man--don’t be
faint-hearted: he’ll bet the contents of this bag;’ and with that the
ould thief gave it another great big shake, to make the guineas jingle
again. ‘It’s ten thousand guineas in hard goold; if he wins, you’re
to sarve him for a year and a day; and if he loses, you’re to have the
bag.’

“‘And the money that’s in it?’ says Jack, wishing, you see, to make a
sure bargain, anyhow.

“‘Ev’ry penny,’ answered the ould chap, ‘if you win it;’ and there’s
fifty to one in your favor.’

“By this time the dog had gone into a great fit of laughing at Jack’s
sharpness about the money. ‘The money that’s in it, Jack!’ says he; and
he took the pipe out of his mouth, and laughed till he brought on a
hard fit of coughing. ‘O, by this and by that says he, ‘but that bates
Bannagher! And you’re to get ev’ry penny, you thief o’ the world, if
you win it!’ but for all that he seemed to be laughing at something that
Jack wasn’t up to.

“At any rate, surely, they palavered Jack betune them until he sot down
and consinted. ‘Well,’ says he, scratching his head, ‘why, worse nor
lose I can’t, so here goes for one trial at the shiners, any how!’

“‘Now,’ says the obscure gintleman, just whin the first card was in his
hand, ready to be laid down, ‘you’re to sarve me for a year and a day,
if I win; and if I lose, you shall have all the money in the bag.’

“‘Exactly,’ said Jack, and, just as he said the word, he saw the dog
putting the pipe in his pocket, and turning his head away, for fraid
Jack would see him breaking his sides laughing. At last, when he got his
face sobered, he looks at Jack, and says, ‘Surely, Jack, if you win,
you must get all the money in the bag; and, upon my reputation, you may
build castles in the air with it, you’ll be so rich.’

“This plucked up Jack’s courage a little, and to work they went; and
how could it end otherwise than Jack to lose betune two such knowing
schamers as they soon turned out to be? For, what do you think? but,
as Jack was beginning the game, the dog tips him a wink--laying his
fore-claw along his nose as before, as much as to say, ‘Watch me, and
you’ll win’--turning round, at the same time, and showing Jack a nate
little looking-glass, that was set in his oxther, in which Jack saw,
dark as it was, the spots of all the other fellow’s cards, as he
thought, so that he was cock-sure of bating him. But they were a pair of
downright knaves any how; for Jack, by playing to the cards that he saw
in the looking-glass, instead of to them the other held in his hand,
lost the game and the money. In short, he saw that he was blarnied and
chated by them both; and when the game was up, he plainly tould them as
much.

“‘What?--you scoundrel!’ says the black fellow, starting up and catching
him by the collar; ‘dare you go for to impache my honor?’

“‘Leather him, if he says a word,’ says the dog, running over on his
hind-legs, and laying his shut paw upon Jack’s nose. ‘Say another word,
you rascal!’ says he, ‘and I’ll down you;’ with this, the ould fellow
gives him another shake.

“‘I don’t blame you so much,’ says Jack to him; ‘it was the
looking-glass that desaved me. That cur’s nothing but a black leg!’

“‘What looking-glass?--you knave you!’ says dark-face, giving him a
fresh haul.

“‘Why, the one I saw under the dog’s oxther,’ replied Jack.

“‘Under my oxther, you swindling rascal!’ replied the dog, giving him
a pull by the other side of the collar; ‘did ever any honest pair
of gintlemen hear the like?--but he only wants to break through the
agreement: so let us turn him at once into an ass, and then he’ll break
no more bargains, nor strive to take in honest men and win their money.
Me a black-leg!’ So the dark fellow drew his two hands over Jack’s jaws,
and in a twinkling there was a pair of ass’s ears growing up out of his
head. When Jack found this, he knew that he wasn’t in good hands: so he
thought it best to get himself as well out of the scrape as possible.

“‘Gintlemen, be aisy,’ says he, ‘and let us understand one another: I’m
very willing to sarve you for a year and a day; but I’ve one requist
to ax, and it’s this: I’ve a helpless ould mother at home,--and if I
go with you now, she’ll break her heart with grief first, and starve
afterwards. Now, if your honor will give me a year to work hard, and lay
in provision to support her while I’m away, I’ll serve you with all the
veins of my heart--for a bargain’s a bargain.’

“With this, the dog gave his companion a pluck by the skirt, and, after
some chat together that Jack didn’t hear, they came back and said
that they would comply with his wishes that far: ‘So, on to-morrow
twelvemonth, Jack,’ says the dark fellow, ‘the dog here will come to
your mother’s, and if you follow him he’ll bring you safe to my castle.’

“‘Very well, your honor,’ says Jack; ‘but as dogs resemble one another
so much, how will I know him when he comes?’

“‘Why,’ answers the other, ‘he’ll have a green ribbon and a spy-glass
about his neck, and a pair of Wellington boots on his hind legs.’

“‘That’s enough, sir,’ says Jack, ‘I can’t mistake him in that dress, so
I’ll be ready; but, jintlemen, if it would be plasing to you both I’d
every bit as soon not go home with these,’ and he handled the brave pair
of ears he had got, as he spoke. ‘The truth is, jintlemen, I’m deluding
enough without them; and as I’m so modest, you persave, why if you’d
take them away, you’d oblige me!’

“To this they had no objection, and during that year Jack wrought night
and day, that he might be able to lave as much provision with his poor
mother as would support her in his absence; and when the morning came
that he was to bid her farewell, he went down on his two knees and got
her blessing. He then left her with tears in his eyes, and promised to
come back the very minute his time would be up. ‘Mother,’ says he, ‘be
kind to your little family here, and feed them well, as they are all
you’ll have to keep you company till you see me again.’

“His mother then stuffed his pockets with bread, till they stuck out
behind him, and gave him a crooked six-pence for luck; after which, he
got his staff, and was just ready to tramp, when, sure enough, he spies
his ould friend the dog, with the green ribbon about his neck, and the
Wellington boots upon his hind legs. He didn’t go in, but waited on the
outside till Jack came out. They then set off, but no one knows how
far they travelled, till they reached the dark gintleman’s castle, who
appeared very glad to see Jack, and gave him a hearty welcome.

“The next day, in consequence of his long journey, he was ax’d to do
nothing; but in the coorse of the evening, the dark chap brought
him into a long, frightful room, where there were three hundred and
sixty-five hooks sticking out of the wall, and on every hook but one
a man’s head. When Jack saw this agreeable sight, his dinner began
to quake within him; but he felt himself still worse, when his master
pointed to the empty hook, saying, ‘Now, Jack, your business to-morrow
is to clane out a stable that wasn’t claned for the last seven years,
and if you don’t have it finished before dusk--do you see that hook?’

“‘Ye--yes,’ replied Jack, hardly able to spake.

“‘Well, if you don’t have it finished before dusk, your head will be
hanging on that hook as soon as the sun sets.’

“‘Very well, your honor,’ replied Jack; scarcely knowing what he said,
or he wouldn’t have said ‘very well’ to such a bloody-minded intention,
any how---‘Very well,’ says he, ‘I’ll do my best, and all the world
knows that the best can do no more.’

“Whilst this discoorse was passing betune them, Jack happened to look
at the upper end of the room, and there he saw one of the beautifullest
faces that ever was seen on a woman, looking at him through a little
panel that was in the wall. She had a white, snowy forehead--such
eyes, and cheeks, and teeth, that there’s no coming up to them; and the
clusters of dark hair that hung about her beautiful temples!--by the
laws, I’m afeard of falling in love with her myself, so I’ll say no more
about her, only that she would charm the heart of a wheel-barrow. At any
rate, in spite of all the ould fellow could say--heads and hooks, and
all, Jack couldn’t help throwing an eye, now and then, to the panel; and
to tell the truth, if he had been born to riches and honor, it would be
hard to fellow him, for a good face and a good figure.

“‘Now, Jack,’ says his master, ‘go and eat your supper, and I hope
you’ll be able to perform your task--if not, off goes your head.’

“‘Very well, your honor,’ says Jack, again scratching it in the hoith of
perplexity, ‘I must only do what I can.’

“The next morning Jack was up with the sun, if not before him, and hard
at his task; but before breakfast time he lost all heart, and little
wonder he should, poor fellow, bekase for every one shovelful he’d throw
out, there would come three more in: so that instead of making his
task less, according as he got on, it became greater. He was now in the
greatest dilemmy, and didn’t know how to manage, so he was driven at
last to such an amplush, that he had no other shift for employment,
only to sing _Paddeen O’Rafferty_ out of mere vexation, and dance the
hornpipe trebling step to it, cracking his fingers, half mad, through
the stable. Just in the middle of this tantrum, who comes to the door to
call him to his breakfast, but the beautiful crathur he saw the evening
before peeping at him through the panel. At this minute, Jack had so
hated himself by the dancing, that his handsome face was in a fine glow,
entirely.

“‘I think,’ said, she to Jack, with one of her own sweet smiles, ‘that
this is an odd way of performing your task.’

“‘Och, thin, ‘tis you that may say that,’ replies Jack; ‘but it’s myself
that’s willing to have my head hung up any day, just for one sight of
you, you darling.’

“‘Where did you come from?’ asked the lady, with another smile that bate
the first all to nothing.

“‘Where did I come from, is it?’ answered Jack; ‘why, death-alive!
did you never hear of ould Ireland, my jewel!--hem--I mane, plase your
ladyship’s honor.’

“‘No,’ she answered; ‘where is that country?’

“‘Och, by the honor of an Irishman,’ says Jack, ‘that takes the
shine!--not heard of Erin--the Imerald Isle--the Jim of the ocean, where
all the men are brave and honorable, and all the women--hem--I mane the
ladies--chaste and beautiful?’

“‘No,’ said she; ‘not a word: but if I stay longer I may get you
blame--come in to your breakfast, and I’m sorry to find that you have
done so little at your task. Your roaster’s a man that always acts up to
what he threatens: and, if you have not this stable cleared out before
dusk, your head will be taken of your shoulders this night.’

“‘Why, thin,’ says Jack, ‘my beautiful darl--plase your honor’s
ladyship--if he Dangs it up, will you do me the favor, _acushla
machree_, to turn my head toardst that same panel where I saw a sartin
fair face that I won’t mintion: and if you do, let me alone for watching
a sartin purty face I’m acquainted with.’

“‘What means _cushla machree?_ inquired the lady, as she turned to go
away.

“‘It manes that you’re the pulse of my heart, avourneen, plase your
ladyship’s Reverence,’ says Jack.

“‘Well,’ said the lovely crathur, ‘any time you speak to me in future,
I would rather you would omit terms of honor, and just call me after the
manner of your own country; instead, for instance, of calling me
your ladyship, I would be better pleased if you called me
cushla--something--’ ‘Cushla machree, ma vourneen--the pulse of my
heart--my darling,’ said Jack, consthering it (the thief) for her, for
fraid she wouldn’t know it well enough.

“‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘cushla machree; well, as I can pronounce it,
acushla machree, will you come in to your breakfast?’ said the darling,
giving Jack a smile that would be enough, any day, to do up the heart
of an Irishman. Jack, accordingly, went after her, thinking of nothing
except herself; but on going in he could see no sign of her, so he-sat
down to his breakfast, though a single ounce, barring a couple of pounds
of beef, the poor fellow couldn’t ate, at that bout, for’ thinking of
her.

“Well, he went again to his work, and thought he’d have better luck; but
it was still the ould game--three shovelfuls would come in for ev’ry one
he’d throw out; and now he began, in earnest, to feel something about
his heart that he didn’t like, bekase he couldn’t, for the life of him,
help thinking of the three hundred and sixty-four heads, and the empty
hook. At last he gave up the work entirely, and took it into his head to
make himself scarce from about the old fellow’s castle, altogether; and
without more to do, he set off, never saying as much as ‘good-bye’ to
his master: but he hadn’t got as far as the lower end of the yard, when
his ould friend, the dog, steps out of a kennel, and meets him full but
in the teeth.

“‘So, Jack,’ says he, ‘you’re going to give us leg bail, I see; but walk
back with yourself, you spalpeen, this minute, and join your work, or
if you don’t,’ says he, ‘it’ll be worse for your health. I’m not so much
your enemy now as I was, bekase you have a friend in coort that you know
nothing about; so just do whatever you are bid, and keep never minding.’

“Jack went back with a heavy heart, as you may be sure, knowing that,
whenever the black cur began to blarney him, there was no good to come
in his way. He accordingly went into the stable, but consuming to the
hand’s turn he did, knowing it would be only useless; for, instead of
clearing it out, he’d be only filling it.

“It was near dinner-time, and Jack was very sad and sorrowful, as how
could he be otherwise, poor fellow, with such a bloody-minded ould chap
to dale with? when up comes the darling of the world again, to call him
to his dinner.

“‘Well, Jack,’ says she, with her white arms so beautiful, and her dark
clusters tossed about by the motion of her walk--how are you coming on
at your task?’ ‘How am I coming on, is it? Och, thin,’ says Jack, giving
a good-humored smile through the frown that was on his face, ‘plase your
lady--a cushla machree--it’s all over with me; for I’ve still the same
story to tell, and off goes my head, as sure as it’s on my shoulders,
this blessed night.’

“‘That would be a pity, Jack,’ says she, ‘for there are worse heads on
worse shoulders; but will you give me the shovel?’ ‘Will I give you
the shovel, is it?--Och thin, wouldn’t I be a right big baste to do the
likes of that, any how?’ says Jack; ‘what! avourneen dheelish! to stand
up with myself, and let this hard shovel into them beautiful, soft,
white hands of your own! Faix, my jewel, if you knew but all, my
mother’s son’s not the man to do such a disgraceful turn, as to let a
lady like you take the shovel out of his hand, and he standing with his
mouth under his nose, looking at you--not myself auourneen! we have no
such ungenteel manners as that in our country.’ ‘Take my advice, Jack,’
says she, pleased in her heart at what Jack said, for all she didn’t
purtend it--‘give me the shovel, and depend upon it, I’ll do more in a
short time to clear the stable than you would for years.’ ‘Why, thin,
avour-neen, it goes to my heart to refuse you; but, for all that, may
I never see yesterday, if a taste of it will go into your purty, white
fingers,’ says the thief, praising her to her face all the time--‘my
head may go off, any day, and welcome, but death before dishonor. Say no
more, darling; but tell your father I’ll be to my dinner immediately.’

“Notwithstanding all this, by jingo, the lady would not be put off; like
a raal woman, she’d have her own way; so on telling Jack that she didn’t
intend to work with the shovel, at all, at all, but only to take it for
a minute in her hand, at long last he gave it to her; she then struck
it three times on the threshel of the door, and, giving it back into his
hand, tould him to try what he could do. Well, sure enough, now there
was a change; for, instead of three shovelfuls coming in, as before,
when he threw one out, there went nine more along with it. Jack,
in coorse, couldn’t do less than thank the lovely crathur for her
assistance; but when he raised his head to speak to her, she was gone.
I needn’t say, howsomever, that he went in to his dinner with a light
heart and a murdhering appetite; and when the ould fellow axed him how
he was coming on, Jack tould him he was doing gloriously. ‘Remember the
empty hook, Jack,’ said he. ‘Never fear, your honor,’ answered Jack, ‘if
I don’t finish my task, you may bob my head off anytime.’

“Jack now went out, and was a short time getting through his job, for
before the sun set it was finished, and he came into the kitchen, ate
his supper, and, sitting down before the fire, sung ‘Love among the
Roses,’ and the ‘Black Joke,’ to vex the ould fellow.

“This was one task over, and his head was safe for that bout; but that
night, before he went to bed, his master called him upstairs, brought
him into the bloody room, and gave him his orders for the next day.
‘Jack,’ says he, ‘I have a wild filly that has never been caught,
and you must go to my demesne to-morrow, and catch her, or if you
don’t--look there,’ says the big blackguard, ‘on that hook it hangs,
before to-morrow, if you havn’t her at sunset in the stable that you
claned yesterday.’ ‘Very well, your honor,’ said Jack, carelessly, ‘I’ll
do every thing in my power, and if I fail, I can’t help it.’

“The next morning, Jack was out with a bridle in his hand, going to
catch the filly. As soon as he got into the domain, sure enough, there
she was in the middle of a green field, grazing quite at her ase. When
Jack saw this he went over towards her, houlding out his hat as if it
was full of oats; but he kept the hand that had the bridle in it behind
his back, for fraid she’d see it and make off. Well, my dear, on he went
till he was almost within grip of her, cock-sure that he had nothing
more to do than slip the bridle over her neck and secure her; but he
made a bit of a mistake in his reckoning, for though she smelt and
snoaked about him, just as if she didn’t care a feed of oats whether he
caught her or not, yet when he boulted over to hould her fast, she was
off like a shot with her tail cocked, to the far end of the demesne,
and Jack had to set off hot foot after here. All, however, was to no
purpose; he couldn’t come next or near her for the rest of the day, and
there she kept coorsing him about from one field to another, till he
hadn’t a blast of breath in his body.

“In this state was Jack when the beautiful crathur came out to call
him home to his breakfast, walking with the pretty small feet and
light steps of her own upon the green fields, so bright and beautiful,
scarcely bending the flowers and the grass as she went along, the
darling.

“‘Jack,’ says she, ‘I fear you have as difficult a task to-day as you
had yesterday.’

“‘Why, and it’s you that may say that with your own purty mouth,’ says
Jack, says he; for out of breath and all as he was, he couldn’t help
giving her a bit of blarney, the rogue.

“‘Well, Jack,’ says she, ‘take my advice, and don’t tire yourself any
longer by attempting to catch her; truth’s, best--I tell you, you could
never do it; come home to your breakfast, and when you return again,
‘just amuse yourself as well as you can until dinner-time.’

“‘Och, och!’ says Jack, striving to look, the sly thief, as if she had
promised to help him--‘I only wish I was a king, and, by the powers,
I know who would be my queen, any how; for it’s your own sweet
lady--savourneen dheelish--I say, amn’t I bound to you for a year and
a day longer, for promising to give me a lift, as well as for what you
done yesterday?’

“‘Take care, Jack,’ says she, smiling, however, at his ingenuity in
striving to trap her into a promise, ‘I don’t think I made any promise
of assistance.’

“‘You didn’t,’ says Jack, wiping his face with the skirt of his coat,
‘’cause why?--you see pocket-handkerchiefs weren’t invented in them
times: ‘why, thin, may I never live to see yesterday, if there’s not
as much rale beauty in that smile that’s diverting itself about them
sweet-breathing lips of yours, and in them two eyes of light that’s
breaking both their hearts laughing at me, this minute, as would
encourage any poor fellow to expect a good turn from you--that is, whin
you could do it, without hurting or harming yourself; for it’s he would
be the right rascal that could take it, if it would injure a silken hair
of your head.’

“‘Well,’ said the lady, with a mighty roguish smile, ‘I shall call you
home to your dinner, at all events.’

“When Jack went back from his breakfast, he didn’t slave himself after
the filly toy more, but walked about to view the demesne, and the
avenues, and the green walks, and nice temples, and fish-ponds, and
rookeries, and everything, in short, that was worth seeing. Towards
dinner-time, howiver, he began to have an eye to the way the sweet
crathur was to come, and sure enough she that wasn’t one minute late.

“‘Well, Jack,’ says she, ‘I’ll keep you no longer in doubt:’ for the
tender-hearted crathur saw that Jack, although he didn’t wish to let
an to her, was fretting every now and then about the odd hook and the
bloody room--‘So, Jack,’ says she, ‘although I didn’t promise, yet I’ll
perform;’ and with that she pulled a small ivory whistle out of her
pocket, and gave three blasts on it that brought the wild filly up to
her very hand, as quick as the wind. She then took the bridle, and threw
it over the baste’s neck, giving her up, at the same time, to Jack; ‘You
needn’t fear now, Jack,’ says she, ‘you’ll find her as quiet as a lamb,
and as tame as you wish; as proof of it, just walk before her, and you
will see she will follow you to any part of the field.’

“Jack, you maybe sure, paid her as many and as sweet compliments as
he could, and never heed one from his country for being able to say
something toothsome to the ladies. At any rate, if he laid it on thick
the day before, he gave two or three additional coats this time, and the
innocent soul went away smiling, as usual.

“When Jack brought the filly home, the dark fellow, his master, if dark
before, was a perfect thunder-cloud this night: bedad, he was nothing
less than near bursting with vexation, bekaise the thieving ould sinner
intended to have Jack’s head upon the hook, but he fell short in his
reckoning now as well as before. Jack sung ‘Love among the Roses,’ and
the ‘Black Joke,’ to help him into better timper.

“‘Jack,’ says he, striving to make himself speak pleasant to him,
‘you’ve got two difficult tasks over you; but you know the third time’s
the charm--take care of the next.’

“‘No matter about that,’ says Jack, speaking up to him stiff and stout,
bekase, as the dog tould him, he knew he had a friend in coort--‘let’s
hear what it is, any how.’

“‘To-morrow, then,’ says the other, ‘you’re to rob a crane’s nest, on
the top of a beech-tree which grows in the middle of a little island in
the lake that you saw yesterday in my demesne; you’re to have neither
boat, nor oar, nor any kind of conveyance, but just as you stand; and if
you fail to bring me the eggs, or if you break one of them,--look here!’
says he, again pointing to the odd hook, for all this discoorse took
place in the bloody room.

“‘Good again,’ says Jack; ‘if I fail I know my doom.’

“‘No, you don’t, you spalpeen,’ says the other, getting vexed with him
entirely, ‘for I’ll roast you till you’re half dead, and ate my dinner
off you after; and, what is more than that, you blackguard, you must
sing the ‘Black Joke’ all the time for my amusement.’

“‘Div’l fly away with you,’ thought Jack, ‘but you’re fond of music, you
vagabone.’

“The next morning Jack was going round and round the lake, trying about
the edge of it, if he could find any place shallow enough to wade in;
but he might as well go to wade the say, and what was worst of all, if
he attempted to swim, it would be like a tailor’s goose, straight to
the bottom; so he kept himself safe on dry land, still expecting a visit
from the ‘lovely crathur,’ but, bedad, his good luck failed him for
wanst, for instead of seeing her coming over to him, so mild and sweet,
who does he obsarve steering at a dog’s trot, but his ould friend the
smoking cur. ‘Confusion to that cur,’ says Jack to himself, ‘I know now
there’s some bad fortune before me, or he wouldn’t be coming acrass me.’

“‘Come home to your breakfast, Jack,’ says the dog, walking up to him,
‘it’s breakfast time.’

“‘Ay,’ says Jack, scratching his head, ‘it’s no matter whether I do or
not, for I bleeve my head’s hardly worth a flat-dutch cabbage at the
present speaking.’

“‘Why, man, it was never worth so much,’ says the baste, pulling out his
pipe and putting it in his mouth, when it lit at once.

“‘Take care of yourself,’ says Jack, quite desperate,--for he thought he
was near the end of his tether,--‘take care of yourself, you dirty cur,
or maybe I might take a gintleman’s toe from your tail.’

“‘You had better keep a straight tongue in your head,’ says four-legs,
‘while it’s on your shoulders, or I’ll break every bone in your
skin--Jack, you’re a fool,’ says he, checking himself, and speaking
kindly to him--‘you’re a fool; didn’t I tell you the other day to do
what you were bid, and keep never minding?’

“‘Well,’ thought Jack to himself, ‘there’s no use in making him any more
my enemy than he is--particularly as I’m in such a hobble.’

“‘You lie,’ says the dog, as if Jack had spoken out to him, wherein he
only thought the words to himself, ‘you lie,’ says he, ‘I’m not, nor
never was, your enemy, if you knew but all.’

“‘I beg your honor’s pardon,’ answers Jack, ‘for being so smart with
your honor, but, bedad, if you were in my case,--if you expected your
master to roast you alive,--eat his dinner of your body,--make you sing
the ‘Black Joke,’ by way of music for him; and, to crown all, know that
your head was to be stuck upon a hook after--maybe you would be a little
short, in your temper, as well as your neighbors.’

“‘Take heart, Jack,’ says the other, laying his fore claw as knowingly
as ever along his nose, and winking slyly at Jack, didn’t I tell you
that you had a friend in coort--the day’s not past yet, so cheer up, who
knows but there is luck before you still?’

“‘Why, thin,’ says Jack, getting a little cheerful, and wishing to crack
a joke with him, ‘but your honor’s very fond of the pipe!’ ‘Oh! don’t
you know, Jack,’ says he, ‘that that’s the fashion at present among my
tribe; sure all my brother puppies smoke now, and a man might as well be
out of the world as out of the fashion, you know.’

“When they drew near home, they got quite thick entirely; ‘Now,’ says
Jack, in a good-humored way, ‘if you can give me a lift in robbing this
crane’s nest, do; at any rate, I’m sure your honor won’t be my enemy. I
know you have too much good nature in your face to be one that wouldn’t
help a lame dog over a style--that is,’ says he, taking himself up for
fear of offending the other,--‘I’m sure you’d be always inclined to help
the weak side.’

“‘Thank you for the compliment,’ says, the dog; ‘but didn’t I tell you
that you have a friend in coort?’

“When Jack went back to the lake, he-could only sit and look sorrowfully
at the tree, or walls; about the edge of it, without being able to do
anything else. He spent the whole day this way, till dinner-time, when
what would you have of it, but he sees the darlin’ coming out to him, as
fair and as blooming as an angel. His heart, you may be sure, got up
to his mouth, for he knew she would be apt to take him out of his
difficulties. When she came up--

“‘Now, Jack,’ says she, ‘there is not a minute to be lost, for I’m
watch’d; and if it’s discovered that I gave you any assistance, we will
both be destroyed.’

“‘Oh, murder sheery!’ (* Murder everlasting) says Jack, ‘fly back,
avourneen machree--for rather than anything should happen you, I’d lose
fifty-lives.’

“‘No,’ says she, ‘I think I’ll be able to-get you over this, as well as
the rest; so have a good heart, and be faithful’ ‘That’s it,’ replied
Jack, ‘that’s it, acushla--my own _correcthur_ to a shaving; I’ve a
heart worth its weight in bank notes, and a more faithful boy isn’t
alive this day nor I’m to yez all, ye darlings of the world.’

“She then pulled a small white wand out of her pocket, struck the lake,
and there was the prettiest green ridge across it to the foot of the
tree that ever eye beheld. ‘Now,’ says she, turning her back to Jack,
and stooping down to do something that he couldn’t see, ‘Take these,’
giving him her ten toes, ‘put them against the tree, and you will have
steps to carry you to the top, but be sure, for your life and mine,
not to forget any of them. If you do, my life will be taken tomorrow
morning, for your master puts on my slippers with his own hands.’

“Jack was now going to swear that he would give up the whole thing and
surrender his head at once; but when life looked at her feet, and saw
no appearance of blood, he went over without more to do, and robbed
the nest, taking down the eggs one by one, that he mightn’t brake them.
There was no end to his joy, as he secured the last egg; he instantly
took down the toes, one after another, save and except the little one
of the left foot, which in his joy and hurry he forgot entirely. He then
returned by the green ridge to the shore, and accordingly as he went
along, it melted away into water behind him.

“‘Jack,’ says the charmer, ‘I hope you forgot none of my toes.’

“‘Is it me?’ says Jack, quite sure that he had them all--‘arrah, catch
any one from my country making a blunder of that kind.’

“‘Well,’ says she, ‘let us see; so, taking the toes, she placed them on
again, just as if they had never been off. But, lo and behold! on coming
to the last of the left foot, it wasn’t forthcoming. ‘Oh! Jack, Jack,’
says she, ‘you have destroyed me; to-morrow morning your master will
notice the want of this toe, and that instant I’ll be put to death.’

“‘Lave that to me,’ says Jack; ‘by the powers, you won’t lose a drop of
your darling blood for it. Have you got a pen-knife about you? and I’ll
soon show you how you won’t.’

“‘What do you want with the knife?’ she inquired.

“‘What do I want with it?--Why to give you the best toe on both my feet,
for the one I lost on you; do you think I’d suffer you to want a toe,
and I having ten thumping ones at your sarvice?--I’m not the man, you
beauty you, for such a shabby trick as that comes to.’

“‘But you forget,’ says the lady, who was a little cooler than Jack,
‘that none of yours would fit me.’

“‘And must you die to-morrow, _acushla?_’ asked Jack, in desperation.

“‘As sure as the sun rises,’ answered the lady ‘for Your master would
know at once that it was by my toes the nest was robbed.’

“‘By the powers,’ observed Jack, ‘he’s one of the greatest ould vag--I
mane, isn’t he a terrible man, out and out, for a father?’

“‘Father!’ says the darling,--‘he’s not my father, Jack, he only wishes
to marry me and if I’m not able to outdo him before three days more,
it’s decreed that he must.

“When Jack heard this, surely the Irishman must come out; there he
stood, and began to wipe his eyes with the skirt of his coat, making
out as if he was crying, the thief of the world. ‘What’s the matter with
you?’ she asked.

“‘All!’ says Jack, ‘you darling, I couldn’t find it in my heart to
desave you; for I have no way at home to keep a lady like you, in proper
style, at all at all; I would only bring I you into poverty, and since
you wish to know what ails me, I’m vexed that I’m not rich for your
sake; and next, that that thieving ould villain’s to have you; and, by
the powers, I’m crying for both these misfortunes together.’

“The lady could not help being touched and plaised with Jack’s
tinderness and ginerosity; so, says she, ‘Don’t be cast down, Jack, come
or go what will, I won’t marry him--I’d die first. Do you go home as
usual; but take care and don’t sleep at all this night. Saddle the wild
filly--meet me under the whitethorn bush at the end of the lawn, and
we’ll both leave him for ever. If you’re willin’ to marry me, don’t let
poverty distress you, for I have more money than we’ll know what to do
with.’

“Jack’s voice now began to tremble in airnest, with downright love and
tinderness, as good right it had; so he promised to do everything just
as she bid him, and then went home with a dacint appetite enough to his
supper.

“You may be sure the ould fellow looked darker and grimmer than ever at
Jack: but what could he do? Jack had done his duty? so he sat before
the fire, and sung ‘Love among the Roses,’ and the ‘Black Joke,’ with a
stouter and a lighter heart than ever, while the black chap, could have
seen him skivered.

“When midnight came, Jack, who kept a hawk’s eye to the night, was at
the hawthorn with the wild filly, saddled and all--more betoken,
she wasn’t a bit wild then, but as tame as a dog. Off they set, like
Erin-go-bragh, Jack and the lady, and never pulled bridle till it
was one o’clock next day, when they stopped at an inn, and had some
refreshment. They then took to the road again, full speed; however,
they hadn’t gone far, when they heard a great noise behind them, and the
tramp of horses galloping like mad. ‘Jack,’ says the darling, on hearing
the hubbub, ‘look behind you, and see what’s this.’

[Illustration PAGE 676-- Throw it over your left shoulder]

“‘Och! by the elevens,’ says Jack, ‘we’re done at last; it’s the dark
fellow, and half the country after us.’ ‘Put your hand,’ says she, ‘in
the filly’s right ear, and tell me what you find in it.’ ‘Nothing at
all,’ says Jack, ‘but a weeshy bit of a dry stick.’ ‘Throw it over your
left shoulder says she, ‘and see what will happen.’ Jack did so at
once, and there was a great grove of thick trees growing so close to one
another, that a dandy could scarcely get his arm betwixt them. ‘Now,’
said she, ‘we are safe for another day.’ ‘Well,’ said Jack, as he pushed
on the filly, ‘you’re the jewel of the world, sure enough; and maybe
it’s you that won’t live happy when we get to the Jim of the Ocean.’

“As soon as dark-face saw what happened, he was obliged to scour the
country for hatchets and hand-saws, and all kinds of sharp instruments,
to hew himself and his men a passage through the grove. As the saying
goes, many hands make light work, and sure enough, it wasn’t long till
they had cleared a way for themselves, thick as it was, and set off with
double speed after Jack and the lady.

“The next day, about’ one o’clock, he and she were after taking another
small refreshment of roast-beef and porther, and pushing on, as before,
when they heard the same tramping behind them, only it was ten times
louder.

“‘Here they are again,’ says Jack; ‘and I’m afeard they’ll come up with
us at last.’

“‘If they do,’ says she, ‘they’ll put us to death on the spot; but we
must try somehow to stop them another day, if we can; search the filly’s
right ear again, and let me know what you find in it.’

“Jack pulled out a little three-cornered pebble, telling her that it was
all he got; ‘well,’ says she, ‘throw it over your left shoulder like the
stick.’

“No sooner said than done; and there was a great chain of high, sharp
rocks in the way of divel-face and all his clan. ‘Now,’ says she, ‘we
have gained another day.’ ‘Tundher-and-turf!’ says Jack, ‘what’s this
for, at all, at all?--but wait till I get you in the Immerald Isle, for
this, and if you don’t enjoy happy days any how, why I’m not sitting
before you on this horse, by the same token that it’s not a horse at
all, but a filly though; if you don’t get the hoith of good aiting and
drinking--lashings of the best wine and whisky that the land can afford,
my name’s not Jack. We’ll build a castle, and you’ll have upstairs and
downstairs--a coach and six to ride in--lots of sarvints to attend on
you, and full and plinty of everything; not to mintion--hem!--not to
mintion that you’ll have a husband that the fairest lady in the land
might be proud of,’ says he, stretching himself up in the saddle, and
giving the filly a jag of the spurs, to show off a bit; although the
coaxing rogue knew that the money which was to do all this was her own.
At any rate, they spent the remainder of this day pleasantly enough,
still moving on, though, as fast as they could. Jack, every now and
then, would throw an eye behind, as if to watch their pursuers, wherein,
if the truth was known, it was to get a peep at the beautiful glowing
face and warm lips that were breathing all kinds of _fragrancies_ about
him. I’ll warrant he didn’t envy the king upon his throne, when he felt
the honeysuckle of her breath, like the smell of Father Ned’s orchard
there, of a May morning.

“When Fardorougha (* the dark man) found the great chain of rocks before
him, you may set it down that he was likely to blow up with vexation;
but, for all that, the first thing he blew up was the rocks--and that he
might lose little or no time in doing it, he collected all the gunpowder
and crowbars, spades and pickaxes, that could be found for miles about
him, and set to it, working as if it was with inch of candle. For half
a day there was nothing but boring and splitting, and driving of iron
wedges, and blowing up pieces of rocks as big as little houses, until,
by hard, labor, they made a passage for themselves sufficient to carry
them over. They then set off again, full speed; and great advantage they
had over the poor filly that Jack and the lady rode on, for their horses
were well rested, and hadn’t to carry double, like Jack’s. The next day
they spied Jack and his beautiful companion, just about a quarter of a
mile before them.

“‘Now,’ says dark-brow, ‘I’ll make any man’s fortune forever that will
bring me them two, either living or dead, but, if possible, alive: so,
spur on, for whoever secures them, man, woman, or child, is a made man,
but, above all, make no noise.’

“It was now divil take the hindmost among the bloody pack--every spur
was red with blood, and every horse smoking. Jack and the lady were
jogging on acrass a green field, not suspecting that the rest were so
near them, and talking over the pleasant days they would spind together
in Ireland, when they hears the hue-and-cry once more at their very
heels.

“‘Quick as lightning, Jack,’ says she, ‘or we’re lost--the right ear and
the left shoulder, like thought--they’re not three lengths of the filly
from us!’

“But Jack knew his business; for just as a long, grim-looking villain,
with a great rusty rapier in his hand, was within a single leap of them,
and quite sure of either killing or making prisoners of them both, Jack
flings a little drop of green water that he got in the filly’s ear over
his left shoulder, and in an instant there was a deep, dark gulf, filled
with black, pitchy-looking water between them. The lady now desired Jack
to pull up the filly a bit, that they might see what would become of the
dark fellow; but just as they turned round, the ould nagur set ‘spurs to
his horse, and, in a fit of desperation, plunged himself, horse and all,
into the gulf, and was never seen or heard of more. The rest that were
with him went home, and began to quarrel about his wealth, and kept
murdering and killing one another, until a single vagabond of them
wasn’t left alive to enjoy it.

“When Jack saw what happened, and that the blood-thirsty ould villain
got what he desarved so richly, he was as happy as a prince, and ten
times happier than most of them as the world goes, and she was every bit
as delighted. ‘We have nothing more to fear,’ said the darling that put
them all down so cleverly, seeing that she was but a woman; but, bedad,
it’s she was the right sort of a woman--‘all our dangers are now over,
at least, all yours are; regarding myself,’ says she, ‘there’s a trial
before me yet, and that trial, Jack, depends upon your faithfulness and
constancy.’

“‘On me, is it?--Och, then, murder! isn’t it a poor case entirely, that
I have no way of showing you that you may depind your life upon me, only
by telling you so?’

“‘I do depend upon you,’ says she--‘and now, as you love me, do not,
when the trial comes, forget her that saved you out of so many troubles,
and made you such a great and wealthy man.’

“The foregoing part of this Jack could well understand, but the last
part of it, making collusion to the wealth, was a little dark, as he
thought, bekase, he hadn’t fingered any of it at the time: still, he
knew she was truth to the back-bone, and wouldn’t desave him. They
hadn’t travelled much farther, When Jack snaps his fingers with a ‘Whoo!
by the powers, there it is, my darling--there it is, at long last!’

“‘There is what, Jack?’ said she, surprised, as well she might, at his
mirth and happiness--‘There is what?’ says she. ‘Cheer up!’ says Jack;
‘there it is, my darling,--the Shannon!--as soon as we get to the other
side of it, we’ll be in ould Ireland once more.’

“There was no end to Jack’s good humor, when he crossed the Shannon;
and she was not a bit displeased to see him so happy. They had now no
enemies to fear, were in a civilized country, and among green fields
and well-bred people. In this way they travelled at their ase, till they
came within a few miles of the town of Knockimdowny, near which Jack’s
mother lived.

“‘Now, Jack,’ says she, ‘I told you that I would make you rich. You know
the rock beside your mother’s cabin; in the east end of that rock there
is a loose stone, covered over with gray moss, just two feet below the
cleft out of which the hanging rowan-tree grows--pull that stone out,
and you will find more goold than would make a duke. Neither speak to
any person, nor let any living thing touch your lips till you come back
to me, or you’ll forget that you ever saw me, and I’ll lie left poor and
friendless in a strange, country.’

“‘Why, thin, _manim asthee hu_,’ (* My soul’s within you.) says Jack,
‘but the best way to guard against that, is to touch your own sweet lips
at the present time,’ says he, giving her a smack that you’d hear, of
a calm evening, acrass a couple of fields. Jack set off to touch the
money, with such speed that when he fell he scarcely waited to rise
again; he was soon at the rock, any how, and without either doubt or
disparagement, there was a cleft of real goolden guineas, as fresh as
daisies. The first thing he did, after he had filled his pockets with
them, was to look if his mother’s cabin was to the fore; and there
surely it was, as snug as ever, with the same dacent column of smoke
rowling from the chimbley.

“‘Well,’ thought he, ‘I’ll just stale over to the door-cheek, and peep
in to get one sight of my poor mother; then I’ll throw her in a handful
of these guineas, and take to my scrapers.’

“Accordingly, he stole up at a half bend to the door, and was just going
to take a peep in, when out comes the little dog Trig, and begins to
leap and fawn upon him, as if it would eat him. The mother, too, came
running out to see what was the matter, when the dog made another spring
up about Jack’s neck, and gave his lips the slightest lick in the world
with its tongue, the crathur was so glad to see him: the next minute,
Jack forgot the lady, as clane as if he had never seen her; but if he
forgot her, catch him at forgetting the money--not he, avick!--that
stuck to him like pitch.

“When the mother saw who it was, she flew to him, and, clasping her arms
about his neck, hugged him till she wasn’t worth three halfpence. After
Jack sot a while, he made a trial to let her know what had happened him,
but he disremembered it all, except having the money in the rock, so
he up and tould her that, and a glad woman she was to hear of his good
fortune. Still he kept the place where the goold was to himself, having
been often forbid by her ever to trust a woman with a sacret when he
could avoid it.

“Now everybody knows what changes the money makes, and Jack was no
exception to this ould saying. In a few years he built himself a fine
castle, with three hundred and sixty-four windies in it, and he would
have added another, to make one for every day in the year, only that
would be equal to the number in the King’s palace, and the Lord of the
Black Rod would be sent to take his head off, it being high thrason for
a subject to have as many windies in his house as the king. (* Such is
the popular opinion.) However, Jack, at any rate, had enough of them;
and he that couldn’t be happy with three hundred and sixty-four,
wouldn’t desarve to have three hundred and sixty-five. Along with all
this, he bought coaches and carriages, and didn’t get proud like many
another beggarly upstart, but took especial good care of his mother,
whom he dressed in silks and satins, and gave her nice nourishing food,
that was fit for an ould woman in her condition. He also got great
tachers, men of great larning, from Dublin, acquainted with all
subjects; and as his own abilities were bright, he soon became a very
great scholar, entirely, and was able, in the long run, to outdo all his
tutherers.

“In this way he lived for some years--was now a man of great larning
himself--could spake the seven _langidges_, and it would delight your
ears to hear how high-flown and Englified he could talk. All the world
wondered where he got his wealth; but as he was kind and charitable
to every one that stood in need of assistance, the people said that
wherever he got it it couldn’t be in better hands. At last he began to
look about him for a wife, and the only one in that part of the country
that would be at all fit for him, was the Honorable Miss Bandbox, the
daughter of a nobleman in the neighborhood. She indeed flogged all the
world for beauty; but it was said that she was proud and fond of wealth,
though, God he knows, she had enough of that any how. Jack, however, saw
none of this; for she was cunning enough to smile, and simper, and look
pleasant, whenever he’d come to her father’s. Well, begad, from one
thing, and one word, to another, Jack thought it was best to make up to
her at wanst, and try if she’d accept of him for a husband; accordingly
he put the word to her like a man, and she, making as if she was
blushing, put her fan before her face and made no answer. Jack, however,
wasn’t to be daunted; for he knew two things worth knowing, when a man
goes to look for a wife: the first is--that ‘faint heart never won fair
lady,’ and the second--that ‘silence gives consint;’ he, therefore,
spoke up to her in fine English, for it’s he that knew how to speak now,
and after a little more fanning and blushing, by jingo, she consinted.
Jack then broke the matter to her father, who was as fond of money as
the daughter, and only wanted to grab at him for the wealth.

“When the match was a making, says ould Bandbox to Jack, ‘Mr. Magennis,’
says he, (for nobody called him Jack now but his mother)--‘these two
things you must comply with, if you marry my daughter, Miss Gripsy:--you
must send away your mother from about you, and pull down the cabin in
which you and she used to live; Gripsy says that they would jog her
memory consarning your low birth and former poverty; she’s nervous
and high-spirited, Mr. Magennis, and declares upon her honor that
she couldn’t bear the thoughts of having the delicacy of her feeling
offinded by these things.’

“‘Good morning to you both,’ says Jack, like an honest fellow as he
was, ‘if she doesn’t marry me except on these conditions, give her my
compliments, and tell her our courtship is at an end.’

“But it wasn’t long till they soon came out with another story,
for before a week passed they were very glad to get him on his own
conditions. Jack was now as happy as the day was long--all things
appointed for the wedding, and nothing a wanting to make everything to
his heart’s content but the wife, and her he was to have in less than
no time. For a day or two before the wedding, there never was seen
such grand preparations: bullocks, and hogs, and sheep were roasted
whole--kegs of whiskey, both Roscrea and Innishowen, barrels of ale and
beer were there in dozens. All descriptions of niceties and wild-fowl,
and fish from the _say_; and the dearest wine that could be bought with
money, was got for the gentry and grand folks. Fiddlers, and pipers, and
harpers, in short all kinds of music and musicianers, played in shoals.
Lords and ladies, and squares of high degree were present--and, to crown
the thing, there was open house to all comers.

“At length the wedding-day arrived; there was nothing but roasting
and boiling; servants dressed in rich liveries ran about with joy and
delight in their countenances, and white gloves and wedding favors on
their hats and hands. To make a long story short, they were all seated
in Jack’s castle at the wedding breakfast, ready for the priest to marry
them when they’d be done; for in them times people were never married
until they had laid in a good foundation to carry them through the
ceremony. Well, they were all seated round the table, the men dressed
in the best of broadcloth, and the ladies rustling in their silks and
satins--their heads, necks, and arms hung round with jewels both rich
and rare; but of all that were there that day, there wasn’t the likes of
the bride and bridegroom. As for him, nobody could think, at all at all,
that he was ever any thing else than a born gintleman; and what was more
to his credit, he had his kind ould mother sitting beside the bride, to
tache her that an honest person, though poorly born, is company for the
king. As soon as the breakfast was served up, they all set to, and maybe
the various kinds of eatables did not pay for it; and among all this
cutting and thrusting, no doubt but it was remarked, that the bride
herself was behindhand wid none of them--that she took her _dalin-trick_
without flinching, and made nothing less than a right fog meal of it;
and small blame to her for that same, you persave.

“When the breakfast was over, up gets Father Flannagan--out with his
book, and on with his stole, to marry them. The bride and bridegroom
went up to the end of the room, attended by their friends, and the rest
of the company stood on each side of it, for you see they were too
high bred, and knew their manners too well, to stand in a crowd like
spalpeens. For all that, there was many a sly look from the ladies to
their bachelors, and many a titter among them, grand as they were;
for, to tell the truth, the best of them likes to see fun in the way,
particularly of that sort. The priest himself was in as great a glee as
any of them, only he kept it under, and well he might, for sure enough
this marriage was nothing less than a rare windfall to him and the
parson that was to marry them after him--bekase you persave a Protestant
and Catholic must be married by both, otherwise it does not hould good
in law. The parson was as grave as a mustard-pot, and Father Flannagan
called the bride and bridegroom his childher, which was a big bounce for
him to say the likes of, more betoken that neither of them was a drop’s
blood to him.

“However, he pulled out the book, and was just beginning to buckle them
when in comes Jack’s ould acquaintance, the smoking cur, as grave as
ever. The priest had just got through two or three words of Latin, when
the dog gives him a pluck by the sleeve; Father Flannagan, of coorse,
turned round to see who it was that _nudged_ him: ‘Behave yourself,’
says the dog to him, just as he peeped over his shoulder---‘behave
yourself,’ says he; and with that he sat him down on his hunkers beside
the priest, and pulling a cigar instead of a pipe out of his pocket, he
put it in his mouth, and began to smoke for the bare life of him. And,
by my own word, it’s he that could smoke: at times he would shoot the
smoke in a slender stream like a knitting-needle, with a round curl at
the one end of it, ever so far out of the right side of his mouth; then
he would shoot it out of the left, and sometimes make it swirl out so
beautiful from the middle of his lips!--why, then, it’s he that must
have been the well-bred puppy all out, as far as smoking went. Father
Flannagan and they all were thundherstruck.

“‘In the name of St. Anthony, and of that holy nun, St. Teresa,’ said
his Reverence to him, ‘who and what are you, at all at all?’

“‘Never mind that,’ says the dog, taking the cigar for a minute between
his claws; ‘but if you wish particularly to know, I’m a thirty-second
cousin of your own by the mother’s side.’

“‘I command you in the name of all the saints,’ says Father Flarmagan,
believing him to be the devil, ‘to disappear from among us, and never
become visible to any one in this house again.’

“‘The sorra a budge, at the present time, will I budge,’ says the dog to
him, ‘until I see all sides rightified, and the rogues disappointed.’

“Now one would be apt to think the appearance of a _spaking_ dog might
be after fright’ning the ladies; but doesn’t all the world know that
_spaking_ puppies are their greatest favorites? Instead of that, you
see, there was half a dozen fierce-looking whiskered fellows, and three
or four half-pay officers, that were nearer making off than the ladies.
But, besides the cigar, the dog had his beautiful eye-glass, and through
it, while he was spaking to Father Flannigan, he ogled all the ladies,
one after another, and when his eye would light upon any that pleased
him, he would kiss his paw to her and wag his tail with the greatest
politeness.

“‘John,’ says Father Flannagan, to one of the servants, ‘bring me salt
and water, till I consecrate them* to banish the divil, for he has
appeared to us all during broad daylight in the shape of a dog.’

     * Salt and water consecrated by a particular form is Holy Water.

“‘You had better behave yourself, I say again,’ says the dog, ‘or if
you make me speak, by my honor as a gintleman I’ll expose you: I say you
won’t marry the same two, neither this nor any other day, and I’ll give
you my raisons presently; but I repate it, Father Flannagan, if you
compel me to speak, I’ll make you look nine ways at once.’

“‘I defy you, Satan,’ says the priest; ‘and if you don’t take yourself
away before the holy watcher’s made, I’ll send you off in a flame of
fire.’

“‘Oh! yes, I’m trimbling,’ says the dog: ‘plenty of spirits you laid in
your day, but it was in a place that’s nearer to us than the Red Sea,
you did it: listen to me though, for I don’t wish to expose you, as I
said;’ so he gets on his hind legs, puts his nose to the priest’s ear,
and whispers something that none of the rest could hear--all before
the priest had time to know where he was. At any rate, whatever he said
seemed to make his Reverence look double, though, faix, that wasn’t
hard to do, for he was as big as two common men. When the dog was
done speaking, and had put his cigar in his mouth, the priest seemed
thundherstruck, crossed himself, and was, no doubt of it, in great
perplexity.

“‘I say it’s false,’ says Father Flannagan, plucking up his courage;
‘but you know you’re a liar, and the father of liars.’

“‘As thrue as gospel, this bout, I tell you,’ says the dog.

“‘Wait till I make my holy wather,’ says the priest, ‘and if I don’t
cork you in a thumb-bottle for this,* I’m not here.’

     * According to the superstitious belief of the Irish, a
     priest, when banishing a spirit, puts it into a thumb-
     bottle, which he either buries deep in the earth, or in some
     lake.

“Just at this minute, the whole company sees a gintleman galloping
for the bare life of him, up to the hall-door, and he dressed like an
officer. In three jiffeys he was down off his horse, and in among the
company. The dog, as soon as he made his appearance, laid his claw as
usual on his nose, and gave the bridegroom a wink, as much as to say,
‘watch what’ll happen.’

“Now it was very odd that Jack, during all this time, remembered the dog
very well, but could never once think of the darling that did so much
for him. As soon, however, as the officer made his appearance, the bride
seemed as if she would sink outright; and when he walked up to her,
to ax what was the meaning of what he saw, why, down she drops at
once--fainted clane. The gintleman then went up to Jack, and says, ‘Sir,
was this lady about to be married to you?’

“‘Sartinly,’ says Jack, ‘we were going to be yoked in the blessed and
holy tackle of mathrimony;’ or some high-flown words of that kind.

“‘Well, sir,’ says the other back to him, ‘I can only say that she is
most solemniously sworn never to marry another man but me at a time;
that oath she tuck when I was joining my regiment before it went abroad;
and if the ceremony of your marriage be performed, you will sleep with a
perjured bride.’

“Begad, he did plump before all their faces. Jack, of coorse, was struck
all of aghape at this; but as he had the bride in his arms, giving her a
little sup of whiskey to bring her to, you persave, he couldn’t make him
an answer. However, she soon came to herself, and, on opening her eyes,
‘Oh, hide me, hide me,’ says she, ‘for I can’t bear to look on him!’

“‘He says you are his sworn bride, my darling,’ says Jack.

“‘I am--I am,’ says she, covering her eyes, and crying away at the rate
of a wedding: ‘I can’t deny it; and, by tare-an-ounty!’ says she, ‘I’m
unworthy to be either his wife or yours; for, except I marry you both, I
dunna how to settle this affair between you at all;--oh, murther sheery!
but I’m the misfortunate crathur, entirely.’

“‘Well,’ says Jack to the officer, ‘nobody can do more than be sorry
for a wrong turn; small blame to her for taking a fancy to your humble
servant, Mr. Officer,’--and he stood as tall as possible to show himself
off: ‘you see the fair lady is sorrowful for her folly, so as it’s
not yet too late, and as you came in the nick of time, in the name of
Providence take my place, and let the marriage go an.’

“‘No,’ says she, ‘never; I’m not worthy of him, at all, at all;
thundher-an-age, but I’m the unlucky thief!’

“While this was going forward, the officer looked closely at Jack, and
seeing him such a fine, handsome fellow, and having heard before of his
riches, he began to think that, all things considhered, she wasn’t so
much to be _blempt_. Then, when he saw how sorry she was for having
forgot him, he steps _forrid_.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m still willing to marry you, particularly as you
feel conthrition--’”


“He should have said contrition, confession, and satisfaction,” observed
Father Peter.

“Pettier, will you keep your theology to yourself,” replied Father Ned,
“and let us come to the plot without interruption.”

“Plot!” exclaimed Father Peter; “I’m sure it’s no rebellion that there
should be a plot in it, any way!”

“_Tace_,” said Father Ned--“_tace_, and that’s Latin for a candle.”

“I deny that,” said the curate; “tace is the imperative mood from
_tacco_, to keep silent. Tacco, taces, tacui, tacere, tacendi, tacendo
tac--”

“Ned, go on with your story, and never mind that deep larning of
his--he’s almost cracked with it,” said the superior: “go on, and never
mind him.”


“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m still willing to marry you, particularly as you
feel conthrition for what you were going to do.’ So, with this, they
all gother about her, and, as the officer was a fine fellow himself,
prevailed upon her to let the marriage be performed, and they were
accordingly spliced as fast as his Reverence could make them.

“‘Now, Jack,’ says the dog, ‘I want to spake with you for a minute--it’s
a word for your own ear;’ so up he stands on his two hind legs, and
purtinded to be whisp’ring something to him; but what do you think?--he
gives him the slightest touch on the lips with his paw, and that instant
Jack remimbered the lady and everything that happened betune them.

“‘Tell me, this instant,’ says Jack, seizing him by the throat, ‘where’s
the darling, at all, at all, or by this and by that you’ll hang on the
next tree!’

“Jack spoke finer nor this, to be sure, but as I can’t give his tall
English, the sorra one of me will bother myself striving to do it.

“‘Behave yourself,’ says the dog, ‘just say nothing, only follow me.’

“Accordingly, Jack went out with the dog, and in a few minutes comes in
again, leading along with him, on the one side, the loveliest lady that
ever eye beheld, and the dog, that was her brother, metamurphied into a
beautiful, illegant gintleman, on the other.

“‘Father Flannagan,’ says Jack, ‘you thought a little while ago you’d
have no marriage, but instead of that you’ll have a brace of them;’ up
and telling the company, at the same time, all that had happened to him,
and how the beautiful crathur that he had brought in with him had done
so much for him.

“Whin the gintlemen heard this, as they Were all Irishmen, you may be
sure there was nothing but huzzaing and throwing up of hats from them,
and waving of hankerchers from the ladies. Well, my dear, the wedding
dinner was ate in great style; the nobleman proved himself no disgrace
to his rank at the trencher; and so, to make a long story short, such
faisting and banquetteering was never since or before. At last, night
came; among ourselves, not a doubt of it, but Jack thought himself a
happy man; and maybe, if all was known, the bride was much in the
same opinion: be that as it may, night came--the bride, all blushing,
beautiful, and modest as your own sweetheart, was getting tired after
the dancing; Jack, too, though much stouter, wished for a trifle of
repose, and many thought it was near time to throw the stocking, as is
proper, of coorse, on every occasion of the kind. Well, he was just on
his way up stairs, and had reached the first landing, when he hears a
voice at his ear, shouting, ‘Jack--Jack--Jack Magennis!’ Jack could have
spitted anybody for coming to disturb him at such a criticality. ‘Jack
Magennis!’ says the voice. Jack looked about to see who it was that
called him, and there he found himself lying on the green Rath, a little
above his mother’s cabin, of a fine, calm summer’s evening, in the month
of June. His mother was stooping over him, with her mouth at his ear,
striving to waken him, by shouting and shaking him out of his sleep.

“‘Oh! by this and by that, mother,’ says Jack, ‘what did you waken me
for?’

“‘Jack, avourneen,’ says the mother, ‘sure and you war lying grunting,
and groaning, and snifthering there, for all the world as if you had the
cholic, and I only nudged you for fraid you war in pain.’

“‘I wouldn’t for a thousand guineas,’ says Jack, ‘that ever you wakened
me, at all, at all; but whisht, mother, go into the house, and I’ll be
afther you in less than no time.’

“The mother went in, and the first thing Jack did was to try the rock;
and, sure enough, there he found as much money as made him the richest
man that ever was in the country. And what was to his credit, when, he
did grow rich, he wouldn’t let his cabin be thrown down, but built a
fine castle on a spot near it, where he could always have it under his
eye, to prevent him from getting proud. In the coorse of time, a harper,
hearing the story, composed a tune upon it, which every body knows is
called the ‘Little House under the Hill’ to this day, beginning with--

     ‘Hi for it, ho for it, hi for it still;
     Och, and whoo! your sowl--hi for the little house under the hill!’

“So you see that was the way the great Magennisses first came by their
wealth, and all because Jack was indistrious, and an obadient, dutiful,
and tindher son to his helpless ould mother, and well he deserved
what he got, _ershi misha_ (* Say I.) Your healths, Father Ned--Father
Pether--all kinds of happiness to us; and there’s my story.”

* * * * *

“Well,” said Father Peter, “I think that dog was nothing more or less
than a downright cur, that deserved the lash nine times a day, if it
was only for his want of respect to the clergy; if he had given me such
insolence, I solemnly declare I would have bate the devil out of him
with a hazel cudgel, if I failed to exorcise him with a prayer.”

Father Ned looked at the simple and credulous curate with an expression
of humor and astonishment.

“Paddy,” said he to the servant, “will you let us know what the night’s
doing?”

Paddy looked out. “Why, your Rev’rence, it’s a fine night, all out, and
cleared up it is bravely.”

At this moment the stranger awoke.

“Sir,” said Father Ned, “you missed an amusing story, in consequence of
your somnolency.”

“Though I missed the story,” replied the stranger, “I was happy enough
to hear your friend’s critique upon the dog.”

Father Ned seemed embarrassed; the curate, on the contrary, exclaimed
with triumph--“but wasn’t I right, sir?”

“Perfectly,” said the stranger; “the moral you applied was excellent.”

“Good-night, boys,” said Father Ned--“good-night, Mr. Longinus
Polysyllabus Alexandrinus!”

“Good-night, boys,” said Father Peter, imitating Father Ned, whom he
looked upon as a perfect model of courtesy--“Good-night, boys--good
night, Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexandrinus.”

“Good-night,” replied the stranger--“good-night, Doctor Edward Deleery;
and good-night, Doctor Peter M’Clatchaghan--good-night.”

When the clergymen were gone, the circle about the fire, excepting the
members of Ned’s family and the stranger, dispersed to their respective
homes; and thus ended the amusement of that evening.

After they had separated, Ned, whose curiosity respecting the stranger
was by no means satisfied, began to sift him in his own peculiar manner,
as they both sat at the fire.

“Well, sir,” said Ned, “barring the long play-acther that tumbles upon
the big stage in the street of our market-town, here below, I haven’t
seen so long a man this many a day; and, barring your big whiskers,
the sorra one of your honor’s unlike him. A fine portly vagabone he is,
indeed--a big man, and a bigger rogue, they say, for he pays nobody.”

“Have you got such a company in your neighborhood?” inquired the
stranger, with indifference.

“We have, sir,” said Ned, “but, plase goodness, they’ll soon be lashed
like hounds from the place--the town boys are preparing to give them a
chivey some fine morning out of the country.”

“Indeed!--he--hem! that will be very spirited of the town boys,” said
the stranger dryly.

“That’s a smart looking horse your honor rides,” observed Ned; “did he
carry you far to-day, with submission?”

“Not far,” replied his companion--“only fourteen miles; but, I suppose,
the fact is, you wish to know who and what I am, where I came from and
whither I am going. Well, you shall know this. In the first place, I am
agent to Lord Non Resident’s estate, if you ever heard of that
nobleman, and am on my way from Castle Ruin, the seat of his Lordship’s
Incumbrances, to Dublin. My name you have already heard. Are you now
satisfied?”

“Parfitly, your honor,” replied Ned, “and I am much obliged to you,
sir.”

“I trust you are an honest man,” said the stranger, “because for this
night I am about to place great confidence in you.”

“Well, sir,” said his landlord, “if I turn out dishonest to you, it’s
more nor I did in my whole life to any body else, barring to Nancy.”

“Here, then,” said the stranger, drawing out a large packet, inclosed
in a roll of black leather--“here is the half year’s rent of the estate,
together with my own property: keep it secure till morning, when I shall
demand it, and, of course, it will be safe?”

“As if it was five _fadom_, under ground,” replied Ned. “I will put it
along with our own trifle of silver; and after that, let Nancy alone for
keeping it safe, so long as it’s there;” saying which, Ned secured the
packet, and showed the stranger his bed.

About five o’clock the next morning their guest was up, and ordered a
snack in all haste; “Being a military man,” said he, “and accustomed to
timely hours, I shall ride down to the town, and put a letter into the
post-office in time for the Dublin mail, after which you may expect me
to breakfast. But, in the meantime, I am not to go with empty pockets,”
 he added; when mounting his horse at the door--“bring me some silver,
landlord, and be quick.”

“How much, plase your honor?”

“Twenty or thirty shillings; but, harkee, produce my packet, that I may
be quite certain my property is safe.”

“Here it is, your honor, safe and sound,” replied Ned, returning from
within; “and Nancy, sir, has sent you all the silver she has, which
was One Pound Five; but I’d take it as a favor if your honor would be
contint with twenty shillings, and lave me the odd five, for you see
the case is this, sir, plase your honor, _she_,” and Ned, with a
shrewd, humorous nod, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, as he
spoke-- “she wears the ---- what you know, sir.”

“Ay, I thought so,” replied the stranger; “but a man of your size to be
henpecked must be a great knave, otherwise your wife would allow you
more liberty. Go in, man; you deserve no compassion in such an age of
freedom as this. I sha’n’t give you a farthing till after my return, and
only then if it be agreeable to your wife.” *

     * Ned M’Keown was certainly a very remarkable individual,
     and became, in consequence of his appearance in these pages,
     a person of considerable notoriety during the latter years
     of his life. His general character, and the nature of his
     unsuccessful speculations, I have drawn with great truth.
     There is only one point alone in which I have done him
     injustice, and that is in depicting him as a henpecked
     husband. The truth is, I had a kind of good humored pique in
     against Ned, and for the following reasons:--The cross-roads
     at which he lived formed a central point for all the
     youngsters of the neighborhood to assemble for the purpose
     of practising athletic exercises, of which I, in my youth,
     was excessively fond. Now Ned never would suffer me to join
     my young acquaintances in these harmless and healthful
     sports, but on every occasion, whenever he saw me, he would
     run out with,a rod or cudgel and chase me from the scene of
     amusement. This, to a boy so enthusiastically devoted to
     such diversions as I was, often occasioned me to give him
     many a hearty malediction when at a safe distance. In fact,
     he continued this practice until I became too much of a man
     to run away, after which he durst only growl and mutter
     abuse, whilst I snapped my fingers at him. For this reason,
     then, and remembering all the vexatious privations of my
     favorite sports which he occasioned me, I resolved to turn
     the laugh against him, which I did effectually, by bringing
     him out in the character of a hen-pecked husband, which was
     indeed very decidedly opposed to his real one. My triumph
     was complete, and Ned, on hearing himself read of “in a
     book,” waxed indignant and wrathful. In speaking of me he
     could not for the life of him express any other idea of my
     age and person than that by which he last remembered me.
     “What do you think?” he would exclaim, “there’s that young
     Carleton has put me in a book, and made Nancy leather me!”
      Ned survived Nancy several years, and married another wife,
     whom I never saw. About twenty-five years ago he went to
     America, where he undertook to act as a tanner, and nearly
     ruined his employer. After some time he returned, home, and
     was forced to mend roads. Towards the close of his life,
     however, he contrived to get an ass and cart, and became
     egg-merchant, but I believe with his usual success. In this
     last capacity, I think about two years ago, he withdrew from
     all his cares and speculations, and left behind him the
     character of an honest, bustlin, good-humored man, whom
     everybody knew and everybody liked, and whose harmless
     eccentricities many will long remember with good-humor and
     regret.

“Murdher!” said Ned, astonished, “I beg your honor’s pardon; but murdher
alive, sir, where’s your whiskers?”

The stranger put his hand hastily to his face, and smiled--“Where are my
whiskers? Why, shaved off, to be sure,” he replied; and setting spurs to
his horse, was soon out of sight and hearing.

It was nearly a month after that, when Ned and Nancy, in presence of
Father Deleery, opened the packet, and. discovered, not the half-year’s
rent of Lord Non-Resident’s estate, but a large sheaf of play-bills
packed up together--their guest having been the identical person to whom
Ned affirmed he bore so strong a resemblance.



SHANE FADH’S WEDDING.

On the following evening, the neighbors were soon assembled about
Ned’s hearth in the same manner as on the night preceding:--And we may
observe, by the way, that though there was a due admixture of opposite
creeds and conflicting principles, yet even then, and the time is not so
far back, such was their cordiality of heart and simplicity of manners
when contrasted with the bitter and rancorous spirit of the present day
that the very remembrance of the harmony in which they lived is at once
pleasing and melancholy.

After some preliminary chat, “Well Shane,” said Andy Morrow, addressing
Shane Fadh, “will you give us an account of your wedding? I’m tould it
was the greatest let-out that ever was in the country, before or since.”

“And you may say that, Mr. Morrow,” said Shane, “I was at many a wedding
myself, but never at the likes of my own, barring Tim Lannigan’s, that
married Father Corrigan’s niece.”

“I believe,” said Andy, “that, too, was a dashing one; however, it’s
your own we want. Come, Nancy, fill these measures again, and let us be
comfortable, at all events, and give Shane a double one, for talking’s
druthy work:--I’ll stand this round.”

When the liquor was got in, Shane, after taking a draught, laid down his
pint, pulled out his steel tobacco-box, and, after twisting off a
chew between his teeth, closed the box, and commenced the story of his
wedding.

“When I was a Brine-Oge,” * said Shane, “I was as wild as an unbroken
cowlt--no divilment was too hard for me; and so sign’s on it, for
there wasn’t a piece of mischief done in the parish, but was laid at my
door--and the dear knows I had enough of my own to answer for, let alone
to be set down for that of other people; but, any way, there was many a
thing done in my name, when I knew neither act nor part about it. One
of them I’ll mintion: Dick Cuillenan, father to Paddy, that lives at
the crass-roads, beyant Gunpowdher Lodge, was over head and ears in love
with Jemmy Finigan’s eldest daughter, Mary, then, sure enough, as purty
a girl as you’d meet in a fair--indeed, I think I’m looking at her, with
her fair flaxen ringlets hanging over her shoulders, as she used to pass
our house, going to mass of a Sunday. God rest her sowl, she’s now
in glory--that was before she was my wife. Many a happy day we passed
together; and I could take it to my death, that an ill word, let alone
to rise our hands to one another, never passed between us--only one day,
that a word or two happened about the dinner, in the middle of Lent,
being a little too late, so that the horses were kept nigh half an hour
out of the plough; and I wouldn’t have valued that so much, only that it
was Beal Cam** Doherty that joined*** me in ploughing that year--and
I was vexed not to take all I could out of him, for he was a raal Turk
himself.

     * A young man full of fun and frolic. The word literally
     signifies Young Brian. Such phrases originate thus:--A young
     man remarkable for one or more qualities of a particular
     nature becomes so famous for them that his name, in the
     course of time, is applied to others, as conveying the same
     character.

     ** Crooked mouth.

     ***In Ireland, small farmers who cannot afford to keep more
     than one horse are in the habit of “joining,” as it is
     termed--that is, of putting their horses together so as to
     form a yoke, when they plough each other’s farms, working
     alternately, sometimes, by the week, half-week, or day; that
     is, I plough this day, or this week, and you the next day,
     or week, until our crops are got down. In this case, each is
     anxious to take as much out of the horses as he can,
     especially where the farms are unequal. For instance, where
     one farm is larger than another the difference must be paid
     by the owner of the larger one in horse-labor, man-labor, or
     money; but that he may have as little to pay as possible, he
     ploughs as much for himself, by the day, as he can, and
     often strives to get the other to do as little per day, on
     the other side, in order to diminish what will remain due to
     his partner. There is, consequently, a ludicrous
     undercurrent of petty jealousy running between them, which
     explains the passage in question.

“I disremember now what passed between us as to words--but I know I
had a duck-egg in my hand, and when she spoke, I raised my arm, and
nailed--poor Larry Tracy, our servant boy, between the two eyes with it,
although the crathur was ating his dinner quietly fornent me, not saying
a word.

“Well, as I tould you, Dick was ever after her, although her father
and mother would rather see her under boord* than joined to any of that
connection; and as for herself, she couldn’t bear the sight of him, he
was sich an upsetting, conceited puppy, that thought himself too good
for every girl. At any rate, he tried often and often, in fair and
market, to get striking up with her; and both coming from and going to
mass, ‘twas the same way, for ever after and about her, till the state
he was in spread over the parish like wild fire. Still, all he could do
was of no use; except to bid him the time of day, she never entered into
discoorse with him at all at all. But there was no putting the likes
of him off; so he got a quart of spirits in his pocket, one night, and
without saying a word to mortal, off he sets full speed to her father’s,
in order to brake the thing to the family.

     * In that part of the country where the scene of Shane
     Fadh’s Wedding is laid, the bodies of those who die are not
     stretched out on a bed, and the face exposed; on the
     contrary, they are placed generally on the ground, or in a
     bed, but with a board resting upon two stools or chairs over
     them. This is covered with a clean sheet, generally borrowed
     from some wealthier neighbor; so that the person of the
     deceased is altogether concealed. Over the sheet upon the
     board, are placed plates of cut tobacco, pipes, snuff, &c.
     This is what is meant by being “undher boord.”

“Mary might be about seventeen at this time, and her mother looked
almost as young and fresh as if she hadn’t been married at all. When
Dick came in, you may be sure they were all surprised at the sight of
him; but they were civil people--and the mother wiped a chair, and put
it over near the fire for him to sit down upon, waiting to hear what
he’d say, or what he wanted, although, they could give a purty good
guess as to that!--but they only wished to put him off with as little
offince as possible. When Dick sot a while, talking about what the price
of hay and oats would be in the following summer, and other subjects
that he thought would show his knowledge of farming and cattle, he pulls
out his bottle, encouraged to by their civil way of talking--and telling
the ould couple, that as he came over on his kailyee,* he had brought
a drop in his pocket to sweeten the discoorse, axing Susy Finigan, the
mother, for a glass to send it round with--at the same time drawing
over his chair close to Mary who was knitting her stocken up beside
her little brother Michael, and chatting to the gorsoon, for fraid that
Cuillenan might think she paid him any attention.

     * Kailyee--a friendly evening visit.

When Dick got alongside of her, he began of coorse, to pull out her
needles and spoil her knitting, as is customary before the young people
come to close spaking. Mary, howsomever, had no welcome for him; so,
says she, ‘You ought to know, Dick Cuillenan, who you spake to, before
you make the freedom you do’

“‘But you don’t know, says Dick, ‘that I’m a great hand at spoiling the
girls’ knitting,--it’s a fashion I’ve got,’ says he.

“‘It’s a fashion, then,’ says Mary, ‘that’ll be apt to get you a broken
mouth, sometime’.*

     * It is no unusual thing in Ireland for a country girl to
     repulse a fellow whom she thinks beneath her, if not by a
     flat at least by a flattening refusal; nor is it seldom that
     the “argumentum fistycuffum” resorted to on such occasions.
     I have more than once seen a disagreeable lover receive,
     from that fair hand which he sought, so masterly a blow,
     that a bleeding nose rewarded his ambition, and silenced for
     a time his importunity.

“‘Then,’ says Dick, ‘whoever does that must marry me.’

“‘And them that gets you, will have a prize to brag of,’ says she; ‘stop
yourself, Cuillenan---single your freedom, and double your distance, if
you plase; I’ll cut my coat off no such cloth.’

“‘Well, Mary,’ says he, ‘maybe, if _you_, don’t, as good will; but you
won’t be so cruel as all that comes to--the worst side of you is out, I
think.’

“He was now beginning to make greater freedom; but Mary rises from her
seat, and whisks away with herself, her cheek as red as a rose with
vexation at the fellow’s imperance. ‘Very well,’ says Dick, ‘off you go;
but there’s as good fish in the say as ever was catched.--I’m sorry to
see, Susy,’ says he to her mother, ‘that Mary’s no friend of mine, and
I’d be mighty glad to find it otherwise; for, to tell the truth, I’d
wish to become connected with the family. In the mane time, hadn’t
you better get us a glass, till we drink one bottle on the head of it,
anyway.’

“‘Why, then, Dick Cuillenan,’ says the mother, ‘I don’t wish you
anything else than good luck and happiness; but, as to Mary, She’s not
for you herself, nor would it be a good match between the families
at all. Mary is to have her grandfather’s sixty guineas; and the two
_moulleens_* that her uncle Jack left her four years ago has brought
her a good stock for any farm. Now if she married you, Dick, where’s the
farm to bring her to?--surely it’s not upon them seven acres of stone
and bent, upon the long Esker,** that I’d let my daughter go to live.
So, Dick, put up your bottle, and in the name of God, go home, boy, and
mind your business; but, above all, when you want a wife, go to them
that you may have a right to expect, and not to a girl like Mary
Finigan, that could lay down guineas where you could hardly find
shillings.’

     * Cows without horns.

     ** Esker; a high ridge of land, generally barren and
     unproductive, when upon a small scale. It is also a ridgy
     height that runs for many miles through a country.

“‘Very well, Susy,’ says Dick, nettled enough, as he well might, ‘I
say to you, just as I say to your daughter, if you be proud there’s no
force.’”

“But what has this to do with you, Shane?” asked Andy Morrow; “sure we
wanted to hear an account of your wedding, but instead of that, it’s
Dick Cuillenan’s history you’re giving us.”

“That’s just it,” said Shane; “sure, only for this same Dick, I’d never
got Mary Finigan for a wife. Dick took Susy’s advice, bekase, after all,
the undacent drop was in him? or he’d never have brought the bottle
out of the house at all; but, faith he riz up, put the whiskey in his
pocket, and went home with a face on him as black as my hat with venom.
Well, things passed on till the Christmas following, when one night,
after the Finigans had all gone to bed, there comes a crowd of fellows
to the door, thumping at it with great violence, and swearing that if
the people within wouldn’t open it immediately, it would be smashed into
smithereens. The family, of coorse, were all alarmed; but somehow or
other, Susy herself got suspicious that it might be something about
Mary, so up she gets, and sends the daughter to her own bed, and lies
down herself in the daughter’s.

“In the mane time, Finigan got up, and after lighting a candle, opened
the door at once. ‘Come, Finigan,’ says a strange voice, ‘put out the
candle, except you wish us to make a candlestick of the thatch,’ says
he--‘or to give you a prod of a bagnet under the ribs,’ says he.

“It was a folly for one man to go to bell-the-cat with a whole crowd;
so he blew the candle out, and next minute they rushed in, and went as
straight as a rule to Mary’s bed. The mother all the time lay close, and
never said a word. At any rate, what could be expected, only that, do
what she could, at the long-run she must go? So according, after a very
hard battle on her side, being a powerful woman, she was obliged to
travel--but not till she had left many of them marks to remimber her by;
among the rest, Dick himself got his nose split on his face, with the
stroke of a churn-staff, so that he carried half a nose on each cheek
till the day of his death. Still there was very little spoke, for
they didn’t wish to betray themselves on any side. The only thing that
Finigan could hear, was my name repeated several times, as if the whole
thing was going on under my direction; for Dick thought, that if there
was any one in the parish likely to be set down for it, it was me.

“When Susy found they were for putting her behind one of them, on a
horse, she rebelled again, and it took near a dozen of boys to hoist her
up; but one vagabone of them, that had a rusty broad-sword in his hand,
gave her a skelp with the flat side of it, that subdued her at once, and
off they went. Now, above all nights in the year, who should be dead but
my own full cousin, Denis Fadh--God be good to him!--and I, and Jack,
and Dan, his brothers, while bringing; home whiskey for the wake and
berrin, met them on the road. At first we thought them distant relations
coming to the wake, but when I saw only one woman among the set, and
she mounted on a horse, I began to suspect that all wasn’t right. I
accordingly turned back a bit, and walked near enough without their
seeing me to hear the discoorse, and discover the whole business. In
less than no time I was back at the wake-house, so I up and tould
them what I saw, and off we set, about forty of us, with good cudgels,
scythe-sneds, and flails, fully bent to bring her back from them, come
or go what would. And troth, sure enough, we did it; and I was the man
myself, that rode afore the mother on the same horse that carried her
off.

“From this out, when and wherever I got an opportunity, I whispered the
soft nonsense, Nancy, into poor Mary’s ear, until I put my _comedher_*
on her, and she couldn’t live at all without me. But I was something for
a woman to look at then, any how, standing six feet two in my stocking
soles, which, you know, made them call me Shane _Fadh_.** At that time
I had a dacent farm of fourteen acres in Crocknagooran--the same that
my son, Ned, has at the present time; and though, as to wealth, by no
manner of manes fit to compare with the Finigans, yet, upon the whole,
she might have made a worse match. The father, however, wasn’t for me;
but the mother was: so after drinking a bottle or two with the mother,
Sarah Traynor, her cousin, and Mary, along with Jack Donnellan, on my
part, in their own barn, unknown to the father, we agreed to make, a
runaway match of it, and appointed my uncle Brian Slevin’s as the house
we’d go to. The next Sunday was the day appointed; so I had my uncle’s
family prepared, and sent two gallons of whiskey, to be there before us,
knowing that neither the Finigans nor my own friends liked stinginess.

     * Comedher--come hither--alluding to the burden of an old
     love-charm which is still used by the young of both sexes on
     May-morning. It is a literal translation of the Irish word
     “gutsho.”

     ** Fadh is tall, or long

“Well, well, after all, the world is a strange thing--it’s myself hardly
knows what to make of it. It’s I that did doat night and day upon that
girl; and indeed there was them that could have seen me in Jimmaiky
for her sake, for she was the beauty of the country, not to say of the
parish, for a girl in her station. For my part, I could neither ate nor
sleep, for thinking that she was so soon to be my own married wife,
and to live under my roof. And when I’d think of it, how my heart would
bounce to my throat, with downright joy and delight! The mother had made
us promise not to meet till Sunday, for fraid of the father becoming
suspicious: but if I was to be shot for it, I couldn’t hinder myself
from going every night to the great flowering whitethorn that was behind
their garden; and although she knew I hadn’t promised to come, yet there
she still was; something, she said, tould her I would come.

“The next Sunday we met at _Althadhawan_ wood, and I’ll never forget
what I felt when I was going to the green at St. Patrick’s Chair, where
the boys and girls meet on Sunday; but there she was--the bright eyes
dancing: with joy in her head to see me. We spent the evening in the
wood, till it was dusk--I bating them all leaping, dancing, and throwing
the stone; for, by my song, I thought I had the action of ten men in
me; she looking on, and smiling like an angel, when I’d lave them miles
behind me. As it grew dusk, they all went home, except herself and me,
and a few more who, maybe, had something of the same kind on hands.

“‘Well Mary,’ says I, ‘acushla machree, it’s dark enough for us to go;
and, in the name of God, let us be off.”

“The crathur looked into my face, and got pale--for she was very young
then: ‘Shane,’ says she, and she thrimbled like an aspen lafe,
‘I’m going to trust myself with--you for ever--for ever, Shane,
avourueen,--and her sweet voice broke into purty murmurs as she spoke;
‘whether for happiness or sorrow God he only knows. I can bear poverty
and distress, sickness and want will’ you, but I can’t bear to think
that you should ever forget to love me as you do now, or your heart
should ever cool to me: but I’m sure,’ says she, ‘you’ll never forget
this night--and the solemn promises you made me, before God and the
blessed skies above us.’

“We were sitting at the time under the shade of a rowan-tree, and I had
only one answer to make--I pulled her to my breast, where she laid her
head and cried like a child with her cheek against mine. My own eyes
weren’t dry, although I felt no sorrow, but--but--I never forgot that
night--and I never will.”

He now paused a few minutes, being too much affected to proceed.

“Poor Shane,” said Nancy, in a whisper to Andy Morrow, “night and day
he’s thinking about that woman; she’s now dead going on a year, and you
would think by him, although he bears up very well before company
that she died only yestherday--but indeed it’s he that was always the
kind-hearted, affectionate man; and a better husband never broke bread.”

“Well,” said Shane, resuming the story, and clearing his voice, “it’s
great consolation to me, now that she’s gone, to think that I never
broke the promise I made her that night; for as I tould you, except in
regard to the duck-egg, a bitther word never passed between us. I was
in a passion then, for a wonder, and bent upon showing her that I was a
dangerous man to provoke; so just to give her a _spice_ of what I could
do, I made _Larry_ feel it--and may God forgive me for raising my hand
even then to her. But sure he would be a brute that would beat such
a woman except by proxy. When it was clear dark we set off, and after
crossing the country for two miles, reached my uncle’s, where a great
many of my friends were expecting us. As soon as we came to the door I
struck it two or three times, for that was the sign, and my aunt came
out, and taking Mary in her arms, kissed her, and, with a thousand
welcomes, brought us both in.

“You all know that the best of aiting and dhrinking is provided when a
runaway couple is expected; and indeed there was galore of both there.
My uncle and all that were within welcomed us again; and many a good
song and hearty jug of punch was sent round that night. The next morning
my uncle went to her father’s, and broke the business to him at once:
indeed it wasn’t very hard to do, for I believe it reached him afore
he saw my uncle at all; so she was brought home* that day, and, on the
Thursday night after, I, my father, uncle, and several other friends,
went there and made the match. She had sixty guineas, that her
grandfather left her, thirteen head of cattle, two feather- and two
chaff-beds, with sheeting, quilts, and blankets; three pieces of
bleached linen, and a flock of geese of her own rearing--upon the whole,
among ourselves, it wasn’t aisy to get such a fortune.

     * One-half, at least, of the marriages in a great portion of
     Ireland are effected in this manner. They are termed
     “runaway matches,” and are attended with no disgrace. When
     the parents of the girl come to understand that she has
     “gone off,” they bring her home in a day or two; the friends
     of the parties then meet, and the arrangements for the
     marriage are made as described in the tale.

“Well, the match was made, and the wedding day appointed; but there was
one thing still to be managed, and that was how to get over _standing_
at mass on Sunday, to make satisfaction for the scandal we gave the
church by running away with one another--but that’s all stuff, for who
cares a pin about standing, when three halves of the parish are married
in the same way! The only thing that vexed me was, that it would keep
back the wedding-day. However, her father and my uncle went to the
priest, and spoke to him, trying, of coorse, to get us off it, but
he knew we were fat geese, and was in for giving us a plucking.--Hut,
tut!--he wouldn’t hear of it at all, not he; for although he would ride
fifty miles to sarve either of us, he couldn’t break the new orders
that he had got only a few days before that from the bishop. No; we must
_stand_*--for it would be setting a bad example to the parish; and if
he would let us pass, how could he punish the rest of his flock, when
they’d be guilty of the same thing?

     * Matches made in this manner are discountenanced by the
     Roman Catholic clergy, as being liable to abuse; and, for
     this reason, the parties, by way of punishment, are
     sometimes, but not always, made to stand up at mass for one
     or three Sundays; but, as Shane expresses it, the punishment
     is so common that it completely loses its effect. To
     “stand,” in the sense meant here, is this: the priest, when
     the whole congregation are on their knees, calls the young
     man and woman by name, who stand up and remain under the
     gaze of the congregation, whilst he rebukes them for the
     scandal they gave to the church, after which they kneel
     down. In general it is looked upon more in fun than
     punishment. Sometimes, however, the wealthier class
     compromise this matter with the priest, as described above.

“‘Well, well, your Reverence,’ says my uncle, winking at her father, ‘if
that’s the case, it can’t be helped, any how--they must only stand, as
many a dacent father and mother’s child has done before them, and will
again, plase God--your Reverence is right in doing your duty.’

“‘True for you, Brian,’ says his Reverence, ‘and yet, God knows, there’s
no man in the parish would be sorrier to see such a dacent, comely young
couple put upon a level with all the scrubs of the parish; and I know,
Jemmy Finigan, it would go hard with your young, bashful daughter to get
through with it, having the eyes of the whole congregation staring on
her.’

“‘Why, then, your Reverence, as to that,’ says my uncle, who was just as
stiff as the other was stout, ‘the bashfulest of them will do more nor
that to get a husband.’

“‘But you tell me,’ says the priest, ‘that the wedding-day is fixed
upon; how will you manage there?’

“‘Why, put it off for three Sundays longer, to be sure,’ says the uncle.

“‘But you forget this, Brian,’ says the priest, ‘that good luck or
prosperity never attends the putting off of a wedding.’

“Now here, you see, is where the priest had them; for they knew that as
well as his Reverence himself--so they were in a puzzle again.

“‘It’s a disagreeable business,’ says the priest, ‘but the truth is, I
could get them off with the bishop, only for one thing--I owe him five
guineas of altar-money, and I am so far back in dues that I’m not able
to pay him. If I could inclose this to him in a letter, I would get them
off at once, although it would be bringing myself into trouble with the
parish afterwards; but, at all events,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t make every
one of you both--so, to prove that I wish to sarve you, I’ll sell the
best cow in my byre, and pay him myself, rather than their wedding
day should be put off, poor things, or themselves brought to any bad
luck--the Lord keep them from it!’

“While he was speaking, he stamped his foot two or three times on the
flure, and the housekeeper came in.--‘Katty,’ says he, ‘bring us in
a bottle of whiskey; at all events, I can’t let you away,’ says he,
‘without tasting something, and drinking luck to the young folks.’

“‘In troth,’ says Jemmy Finigan, ‘and begging your Reverence’s pardon,
the sorra cow you’ll sell this bout, any how, on account of me or my
childhre, bekase I’ll lay down on the nail what’ll clear you wid the
bishop; and in the name of goodness, as the day is fixed and all, let
the crathurs not be disappointed.’

“‘Jemmy,’ says my uncle, ‘if you go to that, you’ll pay but your share,
for I insist upon laying down one-half, at laste.’

“At any rate they came down with the cash, and after drinking a bottle
between them, went home in choice spirits entirely at their good luck in
so aisily getting us off. When they had left the house a bit, the priest
sent after them--‘Jemmy,’ says he to Finigan, ‘I forgot a circumstance,
and that is, to tell you that I will go and marry them at your own
house, and bring Father James, my curate with me.’ ‘Oh, wurrah, no,’
said both, ‘don’t mention that, your Reverence, except you wish to break
their hearts, out and out! why, that would be a thousand times worse
nor making them stand to do penance: doesn’t your Reverence know that
if they hadn’t the pleasure of running for the bottle, the whole wedding
wouldn’t be worth three half-pence?’ ‘Indeed, I forgot that, Jemmy.’
‘But sure,’ says my uncle, ‘your Reverence and Father James must be at
it, whether or not--for that we intended from the first.’ ‘Tell them
I’ll run for the bottle, too,’ says the priest, laughing, ‘and will make
some of them look sharp, never fear.’

“Well, by my song, so far all was right; and may be it’s we that weren’t
glad--maning Mary and myself--that there was nothing more in the way to
put off the wedding-day. So, as the bridegroom’s share of the expense
always is to provide the whiskey, I’m sure, for the honor and glory of
taking the blooming young crathur from the great lot of bachelors that
were all breaking their hearts about her, I couldn’t do less nor finish
the thing dacintly; knowing, besides, the high doings that the Finigans
would have of it--for they were always looked upon as a family that
never had their heart in a trifle, when it would come to the push. So,
you see, I and my brother Mickey, my cousin Tom, and Dom’nick Nulty,
went up into the mountains to Tim Cassidy’s still-house, where we spent
a glorious day, and bought fifteen gallons of stuff, that one drop of
it would bring the tear, if possible, to a young widdy’s eye that had
berrid a bad husband. Indeed, this was at my father’s bidding, who
wasn’t a bit behindhand with any of them in cutting a dash. ‘Shane,’
says he to me, ‘you know the Finigans of ould, that they won’t be
contint with what would do another, and that, except they go beyant
the thing, entirely, they won’t be satisfied. They’ll have the whole
countryside at the wadding, and we must let them see that we have a
spirit and a faction of our own,’ says he, ‘that we needn’t be ashamed
of. They’ve got all kinds of ateables in cart-loads, and as we’re to get
the drinkables, we must see and give as good as they’ll bring. I myself,
and your mother, will go round and invite all we can think of, and let
you and Mickey go up the hills to Tim Cassidy, and get fifteen gallons
of whiskey, for I don’t think less will do us.’

“This we accordingly complied with, as I said, and surely better stuff
never went down the red lane (* Humorous periphrasis for throat) than
the same whiskey; for the people knew nothing about watering it then,
at all at all. The next thing I did was to get a fine shop cloth coat, a
pair of top-boots, and buckskin breeches fit for a squire; along with a
new Caroline hat that would throw off the wet like a duck. Mat Kavanagh,
the schoolmaster from Findramore bridge, lent me his watch for the
occasion, after my spending near two days learning from him to know what
o’clock it was. At last, somehow, I masthered that point so well that,
in a quarter of an hour at least, I could give a dacent guess at the
time upon it.

“Well, at last the day came. The wedding morning, or the bride’s part
of it,* as they say, was beautiful. It was then the month of July. The
evening before my father” * and my brother went over to Jemmy Finigan’s,
to make the regulations for the wedding. We, that is my party, were to
be at the bride’s house about ten o’clock, and we were then to proceed,
all on horseback, to the priest’s, to be married. We were then, after
drinking something at Tom Hance’s public-house, to come back as far
as the Dumbhill, where we were to start and run for the bottle. That
morning we were all up at the shriek of day. From six o’clock my own
faction, friends and neighbors, began to come, all mounted; and about
eight o’clock there was a whole regiment of them, some on horses, some
on mules, others on raheries** and asses; and, by my word, I believe
little Dick Snudaghan, the tailor’s apprentice, that had a hand in
making my wedding-clothes, was mounted upon a buck goat, with a bridle
of salvages tied to his horns. Anything at all to keep their feet from
the ground; for nobody would be allowed to go with the wedding that
hadn’t some animal between them and the earth.

     * The morning or early part of the day, on which an Irish
     couple are married, up until noon, is called the bride’s
     part, which, if the fortunes of the pair are to be happy, is
     expected to be fair--rain or storm being considered
     indicative of future calamity.

     ** A small, shaggy pony, so called from being found in great
     numbers on the Island of that name.

“To make a long story short, so large a bridegroom’s party was never
seen in that country before, save and except Tim Lannigans, that I
mentioned just now. It would make you split your face laughing to see
the figure they cut; some of them had saddles and bridles--others had
saddles and halthers; some had back-suggawns of straw, with hay Stirrups
to them, but good bridles; others sacks filled up as like saddles as
they could make them, girthed with hay-ropes five or six times tied
round the horse’s body. When one or two of the horses wouldn’t carry
double, except the hind rider sat stride-ways, the women had to be put
foremost, and the men behind them. Some had dacent pillions enough, but
most of them had none at all, and the women were obliged to sit where
the pillion ought to be--and a hard card they had to play to keep their
seats even when the horses walked asy, so what must it be when they came
to a gallop! but that same was nothing at all to a trot.

“From the time they began to come that morning, you may be sartain that
the glass was no cripple, any how--although, for fear of accidents, we
took care not to go too deep. At eight o’clock we sat down to a rousing
breakfast, for we thought it best to eat a trifle at home, lest they
might think that what we were to get at the bride’s breakfast might
be thought any novelty. As for my part, I was in such a state, that I
couldn’t let a morsel cross my throat, nor did I know what end of me was
uppermost. After breakfast they all got their cattle, and I my hat and
whip, and was ready to mount, when my uncle whispered to me that I must
kneel down and ax my father and mother’s blessing, and forgiveness for
all my disobedience and offinces towards them--and also to requist the
blessing of my brothers and sisters. Well, in a short time I was down;
and my goodness! such a hullabaloo of crying as there was in a minute’s
time! ‘Oh, Shane Fadh--Shane Fadh, acushla machree!’ says my poor mother
in Irish, ‘you’re going to break up the ring about your father’s hearth
and mine--going to lave us, avourneen, for ever, and we to hear your
light foot and sweet voice, morning, noon, and night, no more! Oh!’ says
she, ‘it’s you that was the good son all out; and the good brother, too:
kind and cheerful was your voice, and full of love and affection was
your heart! Shane, avourneen dheelish, if ever I was harsh to you,
forgive your poor mother, that will never see you more on her flure as
one of her own family.’

“Even my father, that wasn’t much given to crying’, couldn’t speak, but
went over to a corner and cried till the neighbors stopped him. As for
my brothers and sisters, they were all in an uproar; and I myself cried
like a Trojan, merely bekase I see them at it. My father and mother both
kissed me, and gave me their blessing; and my brothers and sisters did
the same, while you’d think all their hearts would break. ‘Come, come,’
says my uncle, ‘I’ll have none of this: what a hubbub you make, and your
son going to be well married--going to be joined to a girl that your
betters would be proud to get into connection with. You should have more
sense, Rose Campbell--you ought to thank God that he had the luck to
come acrass such a colleen for a wife; and that it’s not going to his
grave, instead of into the arms of a purty girl--and what’s better, a
good girl. So quit your blubbering, Rose; and you, Jack,’ says he to my
father, ‘that ought to have more sense, stop this instant. Clear off,
every one of you, out of this, and let the young boy go to his horse.
Clear out, I say, or by the powers I’ll--look at them three stags of
huzzies; by the hand of my body they’re blubbering bekase it’s not their
own story this blessed day. Move--bounce!--and you, Rose Oge, if you’re
not behind Dudley Pulton in less than no time, by the hole of my coat,
I’ll marry a wife myself, and then where will the twenty guineas be that
I’m to lave you?’

“God rest his soul, and yet there was a tear in his eye all the
while--even in spite of his joking!

“Any how, it’s easy knowing that there wasn’t sorrow at the bottom of
their grief: for they were all now laughing at my uncle’s jokes, even
while their eyes were red with the tears: my mother herself couldn’t but
be in a good humor, and join her smile with the rest.

“My uncle now drove us all out before him; not, however, till my mother
had sprinkled a drop of holy water on each of us, and given me and my
brothers and sisters a small taste of blessed candle, to prevent us from
sudden death and accidents.* My father and she didn’t come with as then,
but they went over to the bride’s while we were all gone to the priest’s
house. At last we set off in great style and spirits--I well mounted on
a good horse of my own, and my brother (On one that he had borrowed from
Peter Dannellon), fully bent on winning the bottle. I would have borrowed
him myself, but I thought it dacenter to ride my own horse manfully,
even though he never won a side of mutton or a saddle, like Dannellon’s.
But the man that was most likely to come in for the bottle was little
Billy Cormick, the tailor, who rode a blood-racer that young-John Little
had wickedly lent him for the special purpose; he was a tall bay animal,
with long small legs, a switch tail, and didn’t know how to trot. Maybe
we didn’t cut a dash--and might have taken a town before us. Out we set
about nine o’clock, and went acrass the country: but I’ll not stop to
mintion what happened some of them, even before we got to the bride’s
house. It’s enough to say here, that sometimes one in crassing a stile
or ditch would drop into the shough;** sometimes another would find
himself head foremost on the ground; a woman would be capsized here in
crassing a ridgy field, bringing her fore-rider to the ground along with
her; another would be hanging like a broken arch, ready to come down,
till some one would ride up and fix her on the seat. But as all this
happened in going over the fields, we expected that when we’d get out
on the king’s highway there would be less danger, as we would have no
ditches or drains to crass. When we came in sight of the house, there
was a general shout of welcome from the bride’s party, who were on the
watch for us: we couldn’t do less nor give them back the chorus; but we
had better have let that alone, for some of the young horses took the
stadh,*** others of them capered about; the asses--the sorra choke
them--that were along with us should begin to bray, as if it was the
king’s birthday--and a mule of Jack Urwin’s took it into his head to
stand stock still. This brought another dozen of them to the ground; so
that, between one thing or another, we were near half an hour before we
got on the march again. When the blood-horse that the tailor rode saw
the crowd and heard the shouting, he cocked his ears, and set off with
himself full speed; but before he had got far he was without a rider,
and went galloping up to the bride’s house, the bridle hangin’ about his
feet. Billy, however, having taken a glass or two, wasn’t to be cowed:
so he came up in great blood, and swore he would ride him to America,
sooner than let the bottle be won from the bridegroom’s party.

     * In many parishes of Ireland a number of small wax candles
     are blessed by the priest upon Ash-Wednesday, and these are
     constantly worn about the person until that day twelve
     months, for the purposes mentioned above.

     ** Dyke or drain.

     *** Became restive.

“When we arrived, there was nothing but shaking hands and kissing, and
all kinds of _slewsthering_--men kissing men--women kissing women--and
after that men and women all through other. Another breakfast was ready
for us; and here we all sat down; myself and my next relations in the
bride’s house, and the others in the barn and garden; for one house
wouldn’t hold the half of us. Eating, however, was all only talk: of
coorse we took some of the poteen again, and in a short time afterwards
set off along the paved road to the priest’s house, to be tied as fast
as he could make us, and that was fast enough. Before we went out to
mount our horses though, there was just such a hullabaloo with the bride
and her friends as there was with myself: but my uncle soon put a stop
to it, and in five minutes had them breaking their hearts laughing.

“Bless my heart, what doings! what roasting and boiling!--and what
tribes of beggars and shulers, and vagabonds of all sorts and sizes,
were sunning themselves about the doors wishing us a thousand times long
life and happiness. There was a fiddler and piper: the piper was to stop
in my father-in-law’s while we were going to be married, to keep the
neighbors that were met there shaking their toes while we were at the
priest’s; and the fiddler was to come with ourselves, in order you know,
to have a dance at the priest’s house, and to play for us coming and
going; for there’s nothing like a taste of music when one’s on for
sport. As we were setting off, ould Mary M’Quade from Kilnahushogue,
who was sent for bekase she understood charms, and had the name of being
lucky, took myself aside: ‘Shane Fadh,’ says she, ‘you’re a young man
well to look upon; may God bless you and keep you so; and there’s not a
doubt but there’s them here that wishes you ill--that would rather be
in your shoes this blessed day, with your young _colleen bawn_, (* Fair
Girl) that will be your wife before the sun sets, plase the heavens.
There’s ould Fanny Barton, the wrinkled thief of a hag, that the
Finigans axed here for the sake of her decent son-in-law, who ran away
with her daughter Betty, that was the great beauty some years ago: her
breath’s not good, Shane, and many a strange thing’s said of her. Well,
maybe, I know more about that nor I’m not going to mintion, any how:
more betoken that it’s not for nothing the white hare haunts the
shrubbery behind her house.’

“‘But what harm could she do me, Sonsy Mary?’ says I--for she was called
Sonsy--‘we have often sarved her one way or other.’

“Ax me no questions about her, Shane,’ says she, ‘don’t I know what
she did to Ned Donnelly, that was to be pitied, if ever a man was to be
pitied, for as good as seven months after his marriage, until I relieved
him; was gone to a thread he was, and didn’t they pay me decently for my
throuble!’

“‘Well, and what am I to do, Mary?’ says I, knowing very well that what
she sed was thrue enough, although I didn’t wish her to see that I was
afeard.

“‘Why,’ says she, ‘you must first exchange money with me, and then, if
you do as I bid you you may lave the rest to myself.’

“‘I then took out, begad, a daicent lot of silver--say a crown or
so--for my blood was up and the money was flush--and gave it to her for
which I got a cronagh-bawn* half-penny in exchange.

     * So-called from Cronebane, in the county of Wicklow, where
     there is a copper mine.

“‘Now,’ says she, ‘Shane, you must keep this in your company, and for
your life and sowl, don’t part wid it for nine days after your marriage;
but there’s more to be done,’ says she--‘hould out your right knee;’
so with this she unbuttoned three buttons of my buckskins, and made me
loose the knot of my garther on the right leg. ‘Now,’ says she, ‘if you
keep them loose till after the priest says the words, and won’t let
the money I gave you go out of your company for nine days, along with
something else I’ll do that you’re to know nothing about, there’s no
fear of all their pisthroges.’* She then pulled off her right shoe, and
threw it after us for luck.

     * Charms of an evil nature. These are ceremonies used by
     such women, and believed to be of efficacy by the people. It
     is an undoubted fact that the woman here named--and truly
     named--was called in by honest Ned Donnelly, who, I believe,
     is alive, and could confirm the truth of it. I remember her
     well, as I do the occasion on which she was called in by Ned
     or his friends. I also remember that a neighbor of ours, a
     tailor named Cormick M’Elroy--father, by the way, to little
     Billy Cormick, who figures so conspicuously at the wedding--
     called her in to cure, by the force of charms, some cows he
     had that were sick.

“We were now all in motion once more--the bride riding behind my man,
and the bridesmaid behind myself--a fine bouncing girl she was, but
not to be mintioned in the one year with my own darlin’--in troth, it
wouldn’t be aisy getting such a couple as we were the same day, though
it’s myself that says it. Mary, dressed in a black castor hat, like a
man’s, a white muslin coat, with a scarlet silk handkercher about her
neck, with a silver buckle and a blue ribbon, for luck, round her
waist; her fine hair wasn’t turned up, at all at all, but hung down in
beautiful curls on her shoulders; her eyes, you would think, were all
light; her lips as plump and as ripe as cherries--and maybe it’s myself
that wasn’t to that time o’ day without tasting them, any how; and her
teeth, so even, and as white as a burned bone. The day bate all for
beauty; I don’t know whether it was from the lightness of my own spirit
it came, but, I think, that such a day I never saw from that to this;
indeed, I thought everything was dancing and smiling about me, and
sartinly every one said, that such a couple hadn’t been married, nor
such a wedding seen in the parish for many a long year before.

“All the time, as we went along, we had the music; but then at first we
were mightily puzzled what to do with the fiddler. To put him as a hind
rider it would prevent him from playing, bekase how could he keep the
fiddle before him and another so close to him? To put him foremost was
as bad, for he couldn’t play and hould the bridle together; so at last
my uncle proposed that he should get behind himself, turn his face to
the horse’s tail, and saw away like a Trojan.

“It might be about four miles or so to the priest’s house, and, as
the day was fine, we’ got on gloriously. One thing, however, became
troublesome; you see there was a cursed set of ups and downs on the
road, and as the riding coutrements were so bad with a great many of
the weddiners, those that had no saddles, going down steep places, would
work onward bit by bit, in spite of all they could do, till they’d be
fairly on the horse’s neck, and the women behind them would be on the
animal’s shoulders; and it required nice managing to balance themselves,
for they might as well sit on the edge of a dale board. Many of them got
tosses this way, though it all passed in good humor. But no two among
the whole set were more puzzled by this than my uncle and the fiddler--I
think I see my uncle this minute with his knees sticking into the
horse’s shoulders, and his two hands upon his neck, keeping himself
back, with a _cruiht_* upon him, and the fiddler with his heels away,
towards the horse’s tail, and he stretched back against my uncle, for
all the world like two bricks laid against one another, and one of them
falling. ‘Twas the same thing going up a hill; whoever was behind, would
be hanging over the horse’s tail, with the arm about the fore-rider’s
neck or body, and the other houlding the baste by the mane, to keep
them both from sliding off backwards. Many a come-down there was among
them--but, as I said, it was all in good humor; and, accordingly, as
regularly as they fell, they were sure to get a cheer.

     * The hump, which constitutes a round-shouldered man. If the
     reader has ever seen Hogarth’s Illustrations of Hudibras,
     and remembers the redoubtable hero as he sits on horseback,
     he will be at no loss in comprehending what a cruiht means.
     _Cruiht_ is the Irish for harp, and the simile is taken from
     the projection between the shoulders of the harper which was
     caused by carrying that instrument.

“When we got to the priest’s house, there was a hearty welcome for us
all. The bride and I, with our next kindred and friends, went into the
parlor; along with these, there was a set of young fellows, who had been
bachelors of the bride’s, that got in with an intention of getting the
first kiss* and, in coorse, of bating myself out of it. I got a whisper
of this; so by my song, I was determined to cut them all out in that,
as well as I did in getting herself; but you know, I couldn’t be angry,
even if they had got the foreway of me in it, bekase it’s an ould
custom. While the priest was going over the business, I kept my eye
about me, and sure enough, there were seven or eight fellows all waiting
to snap at her. When the ceremony drew near a close, I got up on one
leg, so that I could bounce to my feet like lightning, and when it was
finished, I got her in my arm, before you could say Jack Robinson, and
swinging her behind the priest, gave her the husband’s first kiss. The
next minute there was a rush after her; but, as I had got the first,
it was but fair that they should come in according as they could, I
thought, bekase, you know, it was all in the coorse of practice; but,
hould, there were two words to be said to that, for what does Father
Dollard do but shoves them off, and a fine stout shoulder he had--shoves
them off, like childre, and getting his arms about Mary, gives her half
a dozen smacks at least--oh, consuming to the one less--that mine was
only a cracker** to. The rest, then, all kissed her, one after another,
according as they could come in to get one. We then went straight to his
Reverence’s barn, which had been cleared out for us the day before, by
his own directions, where we danced for an hour or two, his Reverence
and his Curate along with us.

     * There is always a struggle for this at an Irish wedding,
     where every man is at liberty--even the priest himself--to
     anticipate the bridegroom if he can.


     ** Cracker is the small, hard cord which is tied to a rustic
     whip, in order to make it crack. When a man is considered to
     be inferior to another in anything, the people say, “he
     wouldn’t make a cracker to his whip.”

“When this was over we mounted again, the fiddler taking his ould
situation behind my uncle. You know it is usual, after getting the knot
tied, to go to a public-house or shebeen, to get some refreshment
after the journey; so, accordingly, we went to little lame Larry
Spooney’s--grandfather to him that was transported the other day for
staling Bob Beaty’s sheep; he was called Spooney himself, for his
sheep-stealing, ever since Paddy Keenan made the song upon him, ending
with ‘his house never wants a good ram-horn spoon;’ so that let people
say what they will, these things run in the blood--well, we went to his
shebeen house, but the tithe of us couldn’t get into it; so we sot on
the green before the door, and, by my song, we took (* drank) dacently
with him, any how; and, only for my uncle, it’s odds but we would have
been all fuddled.

“It was now that I began to notish a kind of coolness between my party
and the bride’s, and for some time I didn’t know what to make of it--I
wasn’t long so, however; for my uncle, who still had his eye about
him, comes over to me, and says, ‘Shane, I doubt there will be bad
work amongst these people, particularly betwixt the Dorans and the
Flannagans--the truth is, that the old business of the law-shoot will
break out, except they’re kept from drink, take my word for it, there
will be blood spilled. The running for the bottle will be a good
excuse,’ says he, ‘so I think we had better move home before they go too
far in the drink.’

“Well, any way, there was truth in this; so, accordingly, the reckoning
was ped, and, as this was the thrate of the weddiners to the bride and
bridegroom, every one of the men clubbed his share, but neither I
nor the girls anything. Ha--ha--ha! Am I alive at all? I
never--ha--ha--ha--!--I never laughed so much in one day as I did in
that, today I can’t help laughing at it yet. Well, well! when we all got
on the top of our horses, and sich other iligant cattle as we had--the
crowning of a king was nothing to it. We were now purty well I thank
you, as to liquor; and, as the knot was tied, and all safe, there was no
end to our good spirits; so, when we took the road, the men were in high
blood, particularly Billy Cormick, the tailor, who had a pair of long
cavalry spurs upon him, that he was scarcely able to walk in--and he
not more nor four feet high. The women, too, were in blood, having
faces upon them, with the hate of the day and the liquor, as full as
trumpeters.

“There was now a great jealousy among thim that were bint for winning
the bottle; and when one horseman would cross another, striving to have
the whip hand of him when they’d set off, why you see, his horse would
get a cut of the whip itself for his pains. My uncle and I, however,
did all we could to pacify them; and their own bad horsemanship, and
the screeching of the women, prevented any strokes at that time. Some of
them were ripping up ould sores against one another as they went along;
others, particularly the youngsters, with their sweethearts behind them,
coorting away for the life of them, and some might be heard miles off,
singing and laughing; and you may be sure the fiddler behind my uncle
wasn’t idle, no more nor another. In this way we dashed on gloriously,
till we came in sight of the Dumb-hill, where we were to start for the
bottle. And now you might see the men themselves on their saddles, sacks
and suggans; and the women tying kerchiefs and shawls about their caps
and bonnets, to keep them from flying off, and then gripping their
fore-riders hard and fast by the bosoms. When we got to the Dumb-hill,
there were five or six fellows that didn’t come with us to the priest’s,
but met us with cudgels in their hands, to prevent any of them from
starting before the others, and to show fair play.

“Well, when they were all in a lump,--horses, mules, raheries, and
asses--some, as I said, with saddles, some with none; and all jist as I
tould you before;--the word was given and off they scoured, myself along
with the rest; and divil be off me, if ever I saw such another sight but
itself before or since. Off they skelped through thick and thin, in a
cloud of dust like a mist about us; but it was a mercy that the life
wasn’t trampled out of some of us; for before we had gone fifty perches,
the one-third of them were sprawling a-top of one another on the road.
As for the women, they went down right and left--sometimes bringing the
horsemen with them; and many of the boys getting black eyes and bloody
noses on the stones. Some of them, being half blind with the motion of
the whiskey, turned off the wrong way, and galloped on, thinking they
had completely distanced the crowd; and it wasn’t until they cooled a
bit that they found out their mistake.

[Illustration: PAGE 693-- How he kept his sate so long has puzzled me]

“But the best sport of all was, when they came to the Lazy Corner, just
at Jack Gallagher’s flush,* where the water came out a good way acrass
the road; being in such a flight, they either forgot or didn’t know how
to turn the angle properly, and plash went above thirty of them, coming
down right on the top of one another, souse in the pool. By this time
there was about a dozen of the best horsemen a good distance before the
rest, cutting one another up for the bottle: among these were the Dorans
and Flanagans; but they, you see, wisely enough, dropped their women at
the beginning, and only rode single. I myself didn’t mind the bottle,
but kept close to Mary, for fraid that among sich a divil’s pack of
half-mad fellows, anything might happen her. At any rate, I was next the
first batch: but where do you think the tailor was all this time? Why
away off like lightning, miles before them--flying like a swallow: and
how he kept his sate so long has puzzled me from that day to this; but,
any how, truth’s best--there he was topping the hill ever so far before
them. After all, the unlucky crathur nearly missed the bottle; for when
he turned to the bride’s house, instead of pulling up as he ought to
do--why, to show his horsemanship to the crowd that was out looking at
them, he should begin to cut up the horse right and left, until he
made him take the garden ditch in full flight, landing him among the
cabbages. About four yards or five from the spot where the horse lodged
himself was a well, and a purty deep one, by my word; but not a sowl
present could tell what become of the tailor, until Owen Smith chanced
to look into the well, and saw his long spurs just above the water; so
he was pulled up in a purty pickle, not worth the washing; but what did
he care? although he had a small body, the sorra one of him but had a
sowl big enough for Golias or Sampson the Great.

     * Flush is a pool of water that spreads nearly across a
     road. It is usually fed by a small mountain stream, and in
     consequence of rising and falling rapidly, it is called
     “Flash.”

“As soon as he got his eyes clear, right or wrong, he insisted on
getting the bottle: but he was late, poor fellow, for before he got
out of the garden, two of them comes up--Paddy Doran and Peter
Flanagan--cutting one another to pieces, and not the length of your nail
between them. Well, well, that was a terrible day, sure enough. In the
twinkling of an eye they were both off the horses, the blood streaming
from their bare heads, struggling to take the bottle from my father, who
didn’t know which of them to give it to. He knew if he’d hand it to
one, the other would take offince, and then he was in a great puzzle,
striving to raison with them; but long Paddy Doran caught it while he
was spaking to Flanagan, and the next instant Flanagan measured him with
a heavy loaded whip, and left, him stretched upon the stones.--And now
the work began: for by this time the friends of both parties came up
and joined them. Such knocking down, such roaring among the men, and
screeching and clapping of hands and wiping of heads among the women,
when a brother, or a son, or a husband would get his gruel! Indeed, out
of a fair, I never saw anything to come up to it. But during all this
work, the busiest man among the whole set was the tailor, and what was
worst of all for the poor creature, he should single himself out against
both parties, bekase you see he thought they were cutting him out of his
right to the bottle.

“They had now broken up the garden gate for weapons, all except one of
the posts, and fought into the garden; when nothing should sarve Billy,
but to take up the large heavy post, as if he could destroy the whole
faction on each side. Accordingly he came up to big Matthew Flanagan,
and was rising it just as if he’d fell him, when Matt, catching him by
the nape of the neck, and the waistband of the breeches, went over very
quietly, and dropped him a second time, heels up, into the well; where
he might have been yet, only for my mother-in-law, who dragged him out
with a great deal to do: for the well was too narrow to give him room to
turn.

“As for myself and all my friends, as it happened to be my own wedding,
and at our own place, we couldn’t take part with either of them; but we
endeavored all in our power to red (* Pacify or separate) them, and a
tough task we had of it, until we saw a pair of whips going hard and
fast among them, belonging to Father Corrigan and Father James, his
curate. Well, its wonderful how soon a priest can clear up a quarrel! In
five minutes there wasn’t a hand up--instead of that they were ready to
run into mice-holes:--

“‘What, you murderers,’ says his Reverence, ‘are you bint to have each
other’s blood upon your heads; ye vile infidels, ye cursed unchristian
Anthemtarians?* are ye going to get yourself hanged like sheep-stalers?
down with your sticks, I command you: do you know--will you give
yourselves time to see who’s spaking to you--you bloodthirsty set of
Episcopalians? I command you, in the name of the Catholic Church and the
Blessed Virgin Mary, to stop this instant, if you don’t wish me,’
says he, ‘to turn you into stocks and stones where you stand, and make
world’s wonders of you as long as you live.--Doran, if you rise your
hand more, I’ll strike it dead on your body, and to your mouth you’ll
never carry it while you have breath in your carcass,’ says he.--‘Clear
off, you Flanagans, you butchers you--or by St. Domnick I’ll turn the
heads round upon your bodies, in the twinkling of an eye, so that you’ll
not be able to look a quiet Christian in the face again. Pretty respect
you have for the decent couple at whose house you have kicked up such
a hubbub. Is this the way people are to be deprived of their dinners on
your accounts, you fungaleering thieves!’

     * Antitrinitarians; the peasantry are often extremely fond
     of hard and long words, which they call tall English.

“‘Why then, plase your Riverence, by the--hem--I say Father Corrigan, it
wasn’t my fault, but that villain Flanagan’s, for he knows I fairly
won the bottle--and would have distanced him, only that when I was far
before him, the vagabone, he galloped across me on the way, thinking to
thrip up the horse.’

“‘You lying scoundrel,’ says the priest, ‘how dare you tell me a
falsity,’ says he, ‘to my face? how could he gallop acrass you if you
were far before him? Not a word more, or I’ll leave you without a mouth
to your face, which will be a double share of provision and bacon saved
any way. And, Flanagan, you were as much to blame as he, and must be
chastised for your raggamuffianly conduct,’ says he, ‘and so must you
both, and all your party, particularly you and be, as the ringleaders.
Right well I know it’s the grudge upon the lawsuit you had and not the
bottle, that occasioned it: but by St. Peter, to Loughderg both of you
must tramp for this.’

“‘Ay, and by St. Pether, they both desarve it as well as a thief does
the gallows,’ said a little blustering voice belonging to the tailor,
who came forward in a terrible passion, looking for all the world like
a drowned rat. ‘Ho, by St. Pether, they do, the vagabones; for it was
myself that won the bottle, your Reverence; and by this and by that,’
says he, ‘the bottle I’ll have, or some of their crowns, will crack for
it: blood or whiskey I’ll have, your Reverence, and I hope that you’ll
assist me.

“‘Why, Billy, are you here?’ says Father Corrigan, smiling down upon
the figure the little fellow cut, with his long spurs and his big whip;
‘what in the world tempted you to get on horseback, Billy?’

“‘By the powers, I was miles before them,’ says Billy; ‘and after this
day, your Reverence, let no man say that I couldn’t ride a steeplechase
across Crocknagooran.’

“‘Why, Billy, how did you stick on at all, at all?’ says his Reverence.

“‘How do I know how I stuck on?’ says Billy, ‘nor whether I stuck on
at all or not; all I know is, that I was on horseback leaving the
Dumb-hill, and that I found them pulling me by the heels out of the well
in the corner of the garden--and that, your Reverence, when the first
was only topping the hill there below, as Lanty Magowran tells me who
was looking on.’

“‘Well, Billy,’ says Father Corrigan, ‘you must get the bottle; and as
for you Dorans and Flanagans, I’ll make examples of you for this day’s
work--that you may reckon on. You are a disgrace to the parish, and,
what’s more, a disgrace to your priest. How can luck or grace attind the
marriage of any young couple that there’s such work at? Before you leave
this, you must all shake hands, and promise never to quarrel with each
other while grass grows or water runs; and if you don’t, by the blessed
St. Domnick, I’ll exkimnicate* ye both, and all belonging to you into
the bargain; so that ye’ll be the pitiful examples and shows to all that
look upon you.’

     * Excommunicate. It is generally pronounced as above by the people.

“‘Well, well, your Reverence,’ says my father-in-law, ‘let all by-gones be
by-gones; and please God, they will, before they go, be better friends
than ever they were. Go now an’ clane yourselves, take the blood from
about your faces, for the dinner’s ready an hour agone; but if you all
respect the place you’re in, you’ll show it, in regard of the young
crathurs that’s going, in the name of God, to face the world together,
and of coorse wishes that this day at laste should pass in pace and
quietness: little did I think there was any friend or neighbor here that
would make so little of the place or people, as was done for nothing at
all, in the face of the country.’

“‘God he sees,’ says my mother-in-law, ‘that there’s them here this day
we didn’t desarve this from, to rise such a _norration_, as if the house
was a shebeen or a public-house! It’s myself didn’t think either me or
my poor coolleen here, not to mention the dacent people she’s joined
to, would be made so little of, as to have our place turned into a
play-acthur--for a play-acthur couldn’t be worse.’

“‘Well,’ says my uncle, ‘there’s no help for spilt milk, I tell you,
nor for spilt blood either; tare-an-ounty, sure we’re all Irishmen,
relations, and Catholics through other, and we oughtn’t to be this way.
Come away to the dinner--by the powers, we’ll duck the first man that
says a loud word for the remainder of the day. Come, Father Corrigan,
and carve the goose, or the geese, for us--for, by my sannies, I bleeve
there’s a baker’s dozen of them; but we’ve plenty of Latin for them,
and your Reverence and Father James here understands that langidge, any
how--larned enough there, I think, gintlemen.’

“‘That’s right, Brian,’ shouts the tailor--‘that’s right; there must
be no fighting: by the powers, the first man attempts it, I’ll brain
him--fell him to the earth like an ox, if all belonging to him was in my
way.’

“This threat from the tailor went farther, I think, in putting them into
good humor nor even what the priest said. They then washed and claned
themselves, and accordingly went to their dinners.--Billy himself
marched with his terrible whip in his hand, and his long cavalry
spurs sticking near ten inches behind him, draggled to the tail like a
bantling cock after a shower. But, maybe, there was more draggled tails
and bloody noses nor poor Billy’s, or even nor was occasioned by the
fight; for after Father Corrigan had come, several of them dodged up,
some with broken shins and heads and wet clothes, that they’d got on
the way by the mischances of the race, particularly at the Flush. But
I don’t know how it was; somehow the people in them days didn’t value
these things a straw. They were far hardier then nor they are now, and
never went to law at all at all. Why, I’ve often known skulls to be
broken, and the people to die afterwards, and there would be nothing
more about it, except to brake another skull or two for it; but neither
crowner’s quest, nor judge, nor jury, was ever troubled at all about it.
And so sign’s on it, people were then innocent, and not up to law and
counsellors as they are now. If a person happened to be killed in a
fight at a fair or market, why he had only to appear after his death to
one of his friends, and get a number of masses offered up for his sowl,
and all was right; but now the times are clane altered, and there’s
nothing but hanging and transporting for such things; although that
won’t bring the people to life again.”

“I suppose,” said Andy Morrow, “you had a famous dinner, Shane?”

“‘Tis you that may say that, Mr. Morrow,” replied Shane: “but the house,
you see, wasn’t able to hould one-half of us; so there was a dozen or
two tables borrowed from the neighbors and laid one after another in two
rows, on the green, beside the river that ran along the garden-hedge,
side by side. At one end Father Corrigan sat, with Mary and myself, and
Father James at the other. There were three five-gallon kegs of whiskey,
and I ordered my brother to take charge of them; and there he sat beside
them, and filled the bottles as they were wanted--bekase, if he had left
that job to strangers, many a spalpeen there would make away with lots
of it. Mavrone, such a sight as the dinner was! I didn’t lay my eye on
the fellow of it since, sure enough, and I’m now an ould man, though
I was then a young one. Why there was a pudding boiled in the end of a
sack; and troth it was a thumper, only for the straws--for you see, when
they were making it, they had to draw long straws acrass in order to
keep, it from falling asunder--a fine plan it is, too. Jack M’Kenna, the
carpenther, carved it with a hand-saw, and if he didn’t curse the same
straws, I’m not here. ‘Draw them out, Jack,’ said Father Corrigan--‘draw
them out.--It’s asy known, Jack, you never ate a polite dinner, you poor
awkward spalpeen, or you’d have pulled out the straws the first thing
you did, man alive.’

“Such lashins of corned beef, and rounds of beef, and legs of mutton,
and bacon--turkeys and geese, and barn-door fowls, young and fat. They
may talk as they will, but commend me to a piece of good ould bacon,
ate with crock butther, and phaties, and cabbage. Sure enough, they
leathered away at everything, but this and the pudding were the
favorites. Father Corrigan gave up the carving in less than no time, for
it would take him half a day to sarve them all, and he wanted to provide
for number one. After helping himself, he set my uncle to it, and maybe
he didn’t slash away right and left. There was half a dozen gorsoons
carrying about the beer in cans, with froth upon it like barm--but that
was beer in airnest, Nancy--I’ll say no more.”

“When the dinner was over, you would think there was as much left as
would sarve a regiment; and sure enough, a right hungry ragged regiment
was there to take care of it--though, to tell the truth, there was as
much taken into Finigan’s as would be sure to give us all a rousing
supper. Why, there was such a troop of beggars--men, women, and
childher, sitting over on the sunny side of the ditch, as would make
short work of the whole dinner, had they got it. Along with Father
Corrigan and me, was my father and mother, and Mary’s parents; my uncle,
cousins, and nearest relations on both sides. Oh, it’s Father Corrigan,
God rest his sowl, he’s now in glory, and so he was then, also--how he
did crow and laugh! ‘Well, Matthew Finigan,’ says-he, ‘I can’t say but
I’m happy that your Colleen Bawn here has lit upon a husband that’s no
discredit to the family--and it is herself didn’t drive her pigs to
a bad market,’ says he. ‘Why, in troth, Father avourneen,’ says my
mother-in law, ‘they’d be hard to plase that couldn’t be satisfied with
them she got; not saying but she had her pick and choice of many a
good offer, and might have got richer matches; but Shane Fadh M’Cawell
although you’re sitting there beside my daughter, I’m prouder to see you
on my own flure, the husband of my child, nor if she’d got a man with
four times your substance.’

“‘Never heed the girls for knowing where to choose,’ says his Reverence,
slyly enough: ‘but, upon my word, only she gave us all the slip, to tell
the truth, I had another husband than Shane in my eye for her, and that
was my own nevvy, Father James’s brother here.’

“‘And I’d be proud of the connection,’ says my father-in-law, ‘but you
see, these girls won’t look much to what you or I’ll say, in choosin’ a
husband for themselves. How-and-iver, not making little of your nevvy,
Father Michael, I say he’s not to be compared with that same bouchal
sitting beside Mary there.’

“‘No, nor by the powdhers-o-war, never will,’ says Billy M’Cormick the
tailor, who had come over and slipped in on the other side betune Father
Corrigan and the bride--‘by the powdhers-o’ war, he’ll never be fit to
be compared with me, I tell you, till yesterday comes back again.’

“‘Why, Billy,’ says the priest, ‘you’re every place.’ ‘But where I ought
to be!’ says Billy; ‘and that’s hard and fast tackled to Mary Bane, the
bride here, instead of that steeple of a fellow she has got,’ says the
little cock.

“‘Billy, I thought you were married,’ said Father Corrigan.

“‘Not I, your Reverence,’ says Billy;’ but I’ll soon do something,
Father Michael--I have been threatening this longtime, but I’ll do it at
last’

“‘He’s not exactly married, Sir, says my uncle ‘but there’s a colleen
present’ (looking at the bridesmaid) ‘that will soon have his name upon
her.’

“‘Very good, Billy,’ says the priest, ‘I hope you will give us a rousing
wedding-equal, at least, to Shane Fadh’s.’

“‘Why then, your Reverence, except I get sich a darling as Molly
Bane, here--and by this and that, it’s you that is the darling Molly
asthore--what come over me, at all at all, that I didn’t think of
you,’ says the little man, drawing close to her, and poor Mary smiling
good-naturedly at his spirit.

“‘Well, and what if you did get such a darling as Molly Bane, there?’
says his Reverence.

“‘Why, except I get the likes of her for a wife--upon second thoughts,
I don’t like marriage, any way,’ said Billy, winking against the
priest--‘I lade such a life as your Reverence; and by the powdhers, it’s
a thousand pities that I wasn’t made into a priest, instead of a tailor.
For, you see, if I had’ says he, giving a verse of an old song--

     ‘For you see, if I had,
     It’s I’d be the lad
     That would show all my people such larning;
     And when they’d do wrong,
     Why, instead of a song,
     I’d give them a lump of a sarmin.’

“‘Billy,’ says my father-in-law, ‘why don’t you make a hearty dinner,
man alive? go back to your sate and finish your male--you’re aiting
nothing to signify.’ ‘Me!’ says Billy--‘why, I’d scorn to ate a hearty
dinner; and, I’d have you to know, Matt Finigan, that it wasn’t for
the sake of your dinner I came here, but in regard to your family, and
bekase I wished him well that’s sitting beside your daughter: and it ill
becomes your father’s son to cast up your dinner in my face, or any one
of my family; but a blessed minute longer I’ll not stay among you. Give
me your hand, Shane Fadh, and you, Mary--may goodness grant you pace
and happiness every night and day you both rise out of your beds. I made
that coat your husband has on his back beside you--and a, betther fit
was never made; but I didn’t think it would come to my turn to have my
dinner cast up this a-way, as if I was aiting it for charity.’

“‘Hut, Billy,’ says I, ‘sure it was all out of kindness; he didn’t mane
to offind you.’

“‘It’s no matter,’ says Billy, beginning to cry, ‘he did offend me; and
it’s, low days with me to bear an affront from him, or the likes of
him; but by the powdhers-o’-war,’ says he, getting into a great rage,
‘I won’t bear it,--only as you’re an old man yourself, I’ll not rise
my hand to you; but, let any man now that has the heart to take up your
quarrel, come out and stand before me on the sod here.’

“Well, by this time, you’d tie all that were present with three straws,
to see Billy stripping himself, and his two wrists not thicker than
drumsticks. While the tailor was raging, for he was pretty well up with
what he had taken, another person made his appearance at the far end of
the boreen* that led to the green where we sot. He was mounted upon the
top of a sack that was upon the top of a sober-looking baste enough--God
knows; he jogging along at his ase, his legs dangling down from the sack
on each side, and the long skirts of his coat hanging down behind him.
Billy was now getting pacified, bekase they gave way to him a little;
so the fun went round, and they sang, roared, danced, and coorted, right
and left.

     * A small pathway or bridle road leading to a farm-house.

“When the stranger came as far as the skirt of the green, he turned
the horse over quite nathural to the wedding; and, sure enough, when he
jogged up, it was Friar Rooney himself, with a sack of oats, for he had
been _questin_.* Well, sure the ould people couldn’t do less nor all
go over to put the _failtah_** on him. ‘Why, then,’ says my father and
mother-in-law, ‘’tis yourself, Friar Rooney, that’s as welcome as the
flowers of May; and see who’s here before you--Father Corrigan, and
Father Dollard.’

     * Questin--When an Irish priest or friar collects corn or
     money from the people in a gratuitous manner, the act is
     called “questin.”

     ** Welcome.

“‘Thank you, thank you, Molshy--thank you, Matthew--troth, I know that
‘tis I am welcome.’

“‘Ay, and you’re welcome again, Father Rooney,’ said my father, going
down and shaking hands with him, ‘and I’m proud to see you here. Sit
down, your Reverence--here’s everything that’s good, and plinty of it,
and if you don’t make much of yourself, never say an ill fellow dealt
with you.’

“The friar stood while my father was speaking, with a pleasant,
contented face upon him, only a little roguish and droll.

“‘Hah! Shane Fadh,’ says he, smiling dryly at me, ‘you did them all, I
see. You have her there, the flower of the parish, blooming beside
you; but I knew as much six months ago, ever since I saw you bid her
good-night at the hawthorn. Who looked back so often, Mary, eh? Ay,
laugh and blush--do--throth, ‘twas I that caught you, but you didn’t see
me, though. Well, a colleen, and if you did, too, you needn’t be ashamed
of your bargain, any how. You see, the way I came to persave yez that
evening was this--but I’ll tell it, by and by. In the mane time,’ says
he, sitting down and attacking a fine piece of corn-beef and greens,
‘I’ll take care of a certain acquaintance of mine,’ says he. ‘How are
you, reverend gintlemen of the Secularily? You’ll permit a poor friar to
sit and ate his dinner, in your presence, I humbly hope.’

“‘Frank,’ says Father Corrigan, ‘lay your hand upon your conscience, or
upon your stomach, which is the same thing, and tell us honestly, how
many dinners you eat on your travels among my parishioners this day.’

“‘As I’m a sinner, Michael, this is the only thing to be called a dinner
I eat this day;--Shane Fadh--Mary, both your healths, and God grant
you all kinds of luck and happiness, both here and hereafter! All your
healths in gineral! gintlemen seculars!’

“‘Thank you, Frank,’ said Father Corrigan; how did you speed to-day?’

“‘How can any man speed, that comes after you?’ says the Friar; ‘I’m
after travelling the half of the parish for that poor bag of oats that
you see standing against the ditch.’

“‘In other words, Frank,’ says the Priest, ‘you took Allhadhawan in your
way, and in about half a dozen houses filled your sack, and then turned
your horse’s head towards the good cheer, by way of accident only.’

“‘And was it by way of accident, Mr. Secular, that I got you and that
illoquent young gintleman, your curate, here before me? Do you feel
that, man of the world? Father James, your health, though--you’re a good
young man as far as saying nothing goes; but it’s better to sit still
than to rise up and fall, so I commend you for your discretion,’ says
he; ‘but I’m afeared your master there won’t make you much fitter for
the kingdom of heaven any how.’

“‘I believe, Father Corrigan,’ says my uncle, who loved to see the
priest and the friar at it, ‘that you’ve met with your match--I think
Father Rooney’s able for you.’

“‘Oh, sure,’ says Father Corrigan, he was joker to the college of the
Sorebones (* Sorbonne) in Paris; he got as much education as enabled him
to say mass in Latin, and to beg oats in English, for his jokes.’

“‘Troth, and,’ says the friar, ‘if you were to get your larning on the
same terms, you’d be guilty of very little knowledge; why, Michael,
I never knew you to attempt a joke but once, and I was near shedding
tears, there was something so very sorrowful in it.’

“This brought the laugh against the priest--‘Your health, Molshy,’
says he, winking at my mother-in-law, and then giving my uncle, who sat
beside him, a nudge; ‘I believe, Brian, I’m giving it to him.’ ‘’Tis
yourself that is,’ says my uncle; ‘give him a wipe or two more.’ ‘Wait
till he answers the last,’ says the friar.

“‘He’s always joking,’ says Father James, ‘when he thinks he’ll make any
thing by it.’

“‘Ah!’ says the friar, ‘then God help you both if you were left to your
jokes for your feeding; for a poorer pair of gentlemen wouldn’t be found
in Christendom.’

“‘And I believe,’ says Father Corrigan, ‘if you depinded for your
feeding upon your divinity instead of your jokes, you’d be as poor as a
man in the last stage of a consumption.’

“This drew the laugh against the friar, who smiled himself; but he was a
dry man that never laughed much.

“‘Sure,’ says the friar, who was seldom at a loss, ‘I have yourself
and your nephew for examples that it’s possible to live and be well fed
without divinity.’

“‘At any rate,’ says my uncle, putting in his tongue, ‘I think you’re
both very well able to make divinity a joke betune you,’ says he.

“‘Well done, Brian,’ says the friar, ‘and so they are, for I believe it
is the only subject they can joke upon! and I beg your pardon,
Michael, for not excepting it before; on that subject I allow you to be
humorsome.’

“‘If that be the case, then,’ says Father Corrigan, ‘I must give up your
company, Frank, in order to avoid the force of bad example; for you’re
so much in the habit of joking on everything else, that you’re not able
to accept even divinity itself.’

“‘You may aisily give me up,’ says the friar, ‘but how will you be able
to forget Father Corrigan? I’m afeard you’ll find his acquaintance as
great a detriment to yourself, as it is to others in that respect.’

“‘What makes you say,’ says Father James, who was more in airnest than
the rest, ‘that my uncle won’t make me fit for the kingdom of heaven?’

“‘I had a pair of rasons for it, Jemmy,’ says the friar; ‘one is, that
he doesn’t understand the subject himself; another is, that you haven’t
capacity for it, even if he did. You’ve a want of natural parts--a
_whackuuum_ here’ pointing to his forehead.

“‘I beg your pardon, Frank,’ says Father James ‘I deny your premises,
and I’ll now argue in Latin with you, if you wish, upon any subject you
please.’

“‘Come, then,’ says the friar,--‘Kid eat ivy mare eat hay.’

“‘Kid--what?’ says the other.

“‘Kid eat ivy mare eat hay,’ answers the friar.

“‘I don’t know what you’re at,’ says Father James, ‘but I’ll argue in
Latin with you as long as you wish.’

“‘Tut man,’ says Father Rooney, ‘Latin’s for school-boys; but come, now,
I’ll take you in another language--I’ll try you in Greek--_In-mud-eel-is
in-clay-none-is in-fir-tar-is in-oak-no ne-is_.’

“The curate looked at him, amazed, not knowing what answer to make.
At last says he, ‘I don’t profess to know Greek, bekase I never larned
it--but stick to the Latin, and I’m not afeard of you.’

“‘Well, then,’ says the friar, ‘I’ll give you a trial at that--Afflat te
canis ter--Forte dux fel flat in guttur.’

“‘A flat tay-canisther--Forty ducks fell flat in the gutthers!’ says
Father James,--‘why that’s English!’

“‘English!’ says the friar, ‘oh, good-bye to you, Mr. Secular; ‘if
that’s your knowledge of Latin, you’re an honor to your tachers and to
your cloth.’

“Father Corrigan now laughed heartily at the puzzling the friar gave
Father James. ‘James,’ says he, ‘never heed him; he’s only pesthering
you with bog-Latin; but, at any rate to do him justice, he’s not a
bad Scholar, I can tell you that.... Your health, Prank, you droll
crathur--your health. I have only one fault to find with you, and
that is, that you fast and mortify yourself too much. Your fasting has
reduced you from being formerly a friar of very genteel dimensions to
a cut of corpulency that smacks strongly of penance--fifteen stone at
least.

“‘Why,’ says the friar, looking down quite plased, entirely, at the
cut of his own waist, Uch, among ourselves, was no trifle, and giving a
growl of a laugh--the most he ever gave, ‘if what you pray here benefits
you in the _next life_ as much as what _I fast_ does for me _in this_,
it will be well for the world in general Michael.’

“‘How can you say, Frank,’ says Father ‘with such a carkage as that,
you’re a poor friar? Upon my credit, when you die, I think the angels
will have a job of it in wafting you upwards.”

“‘Jemmy, man, was it _you_ that said it?--why, my light’s beginning to
shine upon you, or you never could have got out so much,’ says Father
Rooney, putting his hands over his brows, and looking up toardst him;
‘but if you ever read scripthur, which I suppose you’re not overburdened
with, you would know that it says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” but
not blessed are the poor in flesh--now, mine is spiritual poverty.’

“‘Very true, Frank,’ says Father Corrigan, ‘I believe there’s a great
dearth and poverty of spirituality about you, sure enough. But of
all kinds of poverty, commend me to a friar’s. Voluntary poverty’s
something, but it’s the divil entirely for a man to be poor against his
will. You friars boast of this voluntary poverty; but if there’s a fat
bit in any part of the parish, we, that are the lawful clargy, can’t
eat it, but you’re sure to drop in, just in the nick of time, with your
voluntary poverty.’

“‘I’m sure, if we do,’ says the friar, ‘it’s nothing out of your pocket,
Michael. I declare I believe you begrudge us the air we breathe. But
don’t you know very well that our ordhers are apostolic, and that, of
coorse, we have a more primitive appearance than you have.’

“‘No such thing,’ says the other; ‘you, and the parsons, and the fat
bishops, are too far from the right place--the only difference between
you is, that you are fat and lazy by toleration, whereas the others are
fat and lazy by authority. You are fat and lazy on your ould horses,
jogging about from house to house, and stuffing yourselves either at the
table of other people’s parishioners, or in your own convents in Dublin
and elsewhere. They are rich, bloated gluttons, going about in their
coaches, and wallying in wealth. Now, we are the golden mean, Frank,
that live upon a little, and work hard for it.’

“‘Why, you cormorant,’ says the friar, a little nettled, for the dhrop
was beginning to get up into his head, ‘sure if we’re fat by toleration,
we’re only tolerably fat, my worthy secular!’

“‘You see,’ says the friar, in a whisper to my uncle, ‘how I sobered
them in the larning, and they are good scholars for all that, but not
near so deep read as myself.’ ‘Michael,’ says he, ‘now that I think on
it--sure I’m to be at Denis O’Flaherty’s Month’s mind on Thursday next.’

“‘Indeed I would not doubt you,’ says Father Corrigan; ‘you wouldn’t be
apt to miss it.’

“‘Why, the widdy Flaherty asked me yesterday, and I think that’s proof
enough that I’m not going unsent for.’

“By this time the company was hard and fast at the punch, the songs, and
the dancing. The dinner had been cleared off, except what was before
the friar, who held out wonderfully, and the beggars and shulers were
clawing and scoulding one another about the divide. The dacentest of
us went into the house for a while, taking the fiddler with us, and the
rest, with the piper, staid on the green to dance, where they were soon
joined by lots of the counthry people, so that in a short time there was
a large number entirely. After sitting for some time within, Mary and I
began, you may be sure, to get unasy, sitting palavering among a parcel
of ould sober folks; so, at last, out we slipped, and the few other
dacent young people that were with us, to join the dance, and shake our
toe along with the rest of them. When we made our appearance, the flure
was instantly cleared for us, and then she and I danced the _Humors of
Glin_.

“Well, it’s no matter--it’s all past now, and she lies low; but I may
say that it wasn’t very often danced in better style since, I’d wager.
Lord, bless us, what a drame the world is! The darling of my heart you
war, avourneen machree. I think I see her with the modest smile upon her
face, straight, and fair, and beautiful, and--hem--and when the dance
was over, how she stood leaning upon me, and my heart within melting to
her, and the look she’d give into my eyes and my heart, too, as much as
to say, ‘This is the happy day with me;’ and the blush still would
fly acrass her face, when I’d press her, unknownst to the bystanders,
against my beating heart. A _suilish machree_, (* Light of my heart.)
she is now gone from me--lies low, and it all appears like a drame to
me; but--hem--God’s will be done!--sure she’s happy--och, och!!

“Many a shake hands did I get from the neighbors’ sons, wishing me joy;
and I’m sure I couldn’t do less than thrate them to a glass, you know;
and ‘twas the same way with Mary: many a neighbors’ daughter, that she
didn’t do more nor know by eyesight, maybe, would come up and wish
her happiness in the same manner, and she would say to me, ‘Shane,
avourneen, that’s such a man’s daughter--they’re a dacent friendly
people, and we can’t do less nor give her a glass.’ I, of coorse, would
go down and bring them over, after a little pulling--making, you see, as
if they wouldn’t come--to where my brother was handing out the native.

“In this way we passed the time till the evening came on, except that
Mary and the bridesmaid were sent for to dance with the priests, who
were within at the punch, in all their glory,--Friar Rooney along
with them as jolly as a prince. I and my man, on seeing this, were for
staying with the company; but my mother, who ‘twas that came for them,
says, ‘Never mind the boys, Shane, come in with the girls, I say. You’re
just wanted at the present time, both of you, follow me for an hour or
two, till their Reverences within have a bit of a dance with the girls,
in the back room; we don’t want to gother a crowd about them.’ Well, we
went in, sure enough, for awhile; but, I don’t know how it was, I didn’t
at all feel comfortable with the priests; for, you see, I’d rather sport
my day figure with the boys and girls upon the green: so I gives Jack
_the hard word_* and in we went, when, behold you, there was Father
Corrigan planted upon the side of a settle, Mary along with him, waiting
till they’d have the fling of a dance together, whilst the Curate was
capering on the flure before the bridesmaid, who was a purty dark-haired
girl, to the tune of ‘Kiss my lady;’ and the friar planted between my
mother and my mother-in-law, one of his legs stretched out on a chair,
he singing some funny song or other, that brought the tears to their
eyes with laughing.

     * A pass-word, sign, or brief intimation, touching something
     of which a man is ignorant, that he may act accordingly.

“Whilst Father James was dancing with the bridesmaid, I gave Mary the
wink to! come away from Father Corrigan, wishing, as I tould you, to
get out amongst the youngsters once more; and Mary, herself, to tell
the truth, although he was the priest, was very willing to do so. I went
over to her, and says, ‘Mary, asthore, there’s a friend without that
wishes to spake to you.’

“‘Well,’ says Father Corrigan, ‘tell that friend that she’s better
employed, and that they must wait, whoever they are. I’m giving your
wife, Shane,’ says he, ‘a little good advice that she won’t be the worse
for, and she can’t go now.’

“Mary, in the meantime, had got up, and was coming away, when his
Reverence wanted her to stay till they’d finished their dance. ‘Father
Corrigan,’ says she, ‘let me go now, sir, if you plase, for they would
think it bad threatment of me not to go out to them.’

“‘Troth, and you’ll do no such thing, acushla,’ says he, spaking so
sweet to her; ‘let them come in if they want you. Shane, says his
Reverence, winking at me, and spiking in a whisper, ‘stay here, you and
the girls, till we take a hate at the dancing--don’t you know that the
ould women here, and me will have to talk over some things about the
fortune; you’ll maybe get more nor you expect. Here, Molshy,’ says he to
my mother-in-law, ‘don’t let the youngsters out of this.”

“‘Musha, Shane, ahagur,’ say’s the ould woman ‘why will yez go and
lave the place; sure you needn’t be dashed before them--they’ll dance
themselves.’

“Accordingly we stayed in the room; but just on the word, Mary gives
one spring away, leaving his Reverence by himself on the _settle_. ‘Come
away,’ says she, ‘lave them there, and let us go to where I can have a
dance with yourself, Shane.’

“Well, I always loved Mary, but at that minute, if it would save her,
I think I could spill my heart’s blood for her. ‘Mary,’ says I full to
the throat, ‘Mary, acushla agus asthore machree,* I could lose my life
for you.’

     *The very pulse and delight of my heart.

“She looked in my face, and the tears came into her--yes--‘Shane,
achora,’ says she, ‘amn’t I your happy girl, at last?’ She was leaning
over against my breast; and what answer do you think I made?--I pressed
her to my heart: I did more--I took off my hat, and looking up to God, I
thanked him with tears in my eyes, for giving me such a treasure. ‘Well,
come now,’ says she, ‘to the green;’ so we went--and it’s she that was
the girl, when she did go among them, that threw them all into the dark
for beauty and figure; as fair as a lily itself did she look--so tall
and illegant, that you wouldn’t think she was a farmer’s daughter at
all; so we left the priests dancing away, for we could do no good before
them.

“When we had danced an hour or so, them that the family had the
greatest regard for were brought in unknown to the rest, to drink tay.
Mary planted herself beside me, and would sit nowhere else; but the
friar got beside the bridesmaid, and I surely observed that many a time
she’d look over, likely to split, at Mary, and it’s Mary herself that
gave her many’s a wink, to come to the other side; but, you know, out of
manners, she was obliged to sit quietly, though among ourselves it’s she
that was like a hen on a hot griddle, beside the ould chap. It was now
that the bride-cake was got. Ould Sonsy Mary marched over, and putting
the bride on her feet, got up on a chair and broke it over her head,
giving round a _fadge_* of it to every young person in the house, and
they again to their acquaintances: but, lo and behold you, who should
insist on getting a whang of it but the friar, which he rolled up in a
piece of paper, and put it in his pocket. ‘I’ll have good fun,’ says
he, ‘dividing this to-morrow among the colleens when I’m collecting my
oats--the sorra one of me but I’ll make them give me the worth of it of
something, if it was only a fat hen or a square of bacon.’

     * A liberal portion torn off a thick cake.

“After tay the ould folk got full of talk; the youngsters danced round
them; the friar sung like a thrush, and told many a droll story. The
tailor had got drunk a little too early, and had to be put to bed, but
he was now as fresh as ever, and able to dance a hornpipe, which he
did on a door. The Dorans and the Flanagans had got quite thick after
drubbing one another--Ned Doran began his courtship with Alley Flanagan
on that day, and they were married soon after, so that the two factions
joined, and never had another battle until the day of her berrial, when
they were at it as fresh as ever. Several of those that were at the
wedding were lying drunk about the ditches, or roaring, and swaggering,
and singing about the place. The night falling, those that were dancing
on the green removed to the barn. Father Corrigan and Father James
weren’t ill off; but as for the friar, although he was as pleasant as
a lark, there was hardly any such thing as making him tipsy. Father
Corrigan wanted him to dance--‘What!’ says he, ‘would you have me to
bring on an earthquake, Michael?--but who ever heard of a follower
of St. Domnick, bound by his vow to voluntary poverty and
mortification----young couple, your health--will anybody tell mo
who mixed this, for they’ve knowledge worth a folio of the
fathers----poverty and mortification, going to shake his heel? By the
bones of St. Domnick, I’d desarve to be suspinded if I did. Will no
one tell me who mixed this, I say, for they had a jewel of a hand at
it?--Och--

     ‘Let parsons prache and pray--
     Let priests to pray and prache, sir;
     What’s the rason they
     Don’t practise what they tache, sir?
     Forral, orral, loll,
     Forral, orral, laddy--

_Sho da slainthah ma collenee agus ma bouchalee_. Hoigh, oigh,
oigh, healths all! gintlemen seculars! Molshy,’ says the friar to my
mother-in-law, ‘send that bocaun* to bed--poor fellow, he’s almost
off--rouse yourself, James! It’s aisy to see that he’s but young at it
yet--that’s right--he’s sound asleep--just toss him into bed, and in an
hour or so he’ll be as fresh as a daisy.

     * A soft, unsophisticated youth.

     Let parsons prache and pray--
     -----Forral, orral, loll.’

“For dear’s sake, Father Rooney,’ says my uncle, running in, in a great
hurry, ‘keep yourself quiet a little; here’s the Squire and Mister
Francis coming over to fulfil their promise; he would have come up
airlier, he says, but that he was away all day at the ‘sizes.’

“‘Very well,’ says the friar, ‘let him come--who’s afeard--mind
yourself, Michael.’

“In a minute or two they came in, and we all rose up of course
to welcome them. The Squire shuck hands with the ould people, and
afterwards with Mary and myself, wishing us all happiness, then with the
two clergymen, and introduced Master Frank to them; and the friar made
the young chap sit beside him. The masther then took a sate himself,
and looked on while they were dancing, with a smile of good-humor on his
face--while they, all the time, would give new touches and trebles, to
show off all their steps before him. He was landlord both to my father
and father-in-law; and it’s he that was the good man, and the gintleman
every inch of him. They may all talk as they will, but commend me, Mr.
Morrow, to some of the ould squires of former times for a landlord.
The priests, with all their larning, were nothing to him for good
breeding--he appeared so free, and so much at his ase, and even so
respectful, that I don’t think there was one in the house but would put
their two hands under his feet to do him a sarvice.

“When he sat a while, my mother-in-law came over with a glass of nice
punch that she had mixed, at least equal to what the friar praised so
well, and making a low curtshy, begged pardon for using such freedom
with his honor, but hoped that he would just taste a little to the
happiness of the young couple. He then drank our healths, and shuck
hands with us both a second time, saying--although I can’t, at all at
all, give it in anything like his own words--‘I am glad,’ says he,
to Mary’s parents, ‘that your daughter has made such a good
choice;’--throth he did--the Lord be merciful to his sowl--God forgive
me for what I was going to say, and he a Protestant;--but if ever one of
yez went to heaven, Mr. Morrow, he did;--’ such a prudent choice; and I
congr--con--grathu-late you,’ says he to my father, ‘on your connection
with so industrious and respectable a family. You are now beginning the
world for yourselves,’ says he to Mary and me, ‘and I cannot propose a
better example to you both than that of your respective parents. From
this forrid,’ says he, ‘I’m to considher you my tenants; and I wish to
take this opportunity of informing you both, that should you act up to
the opinion I entertain of you, by an attentive coorse of industry
and good management, you will find in me an encouraging and indulgent
landlord. I know, Shane,’ says he to me, smiling a little, knowingly
enough too, ‘that you have been a little wild or so, but that’s past,
I trust. You have now sarious duties to perform, which you cannot
neglect--but you will not neglect them; and be assured, I say again,
that I shall feel pleasure in rendhering you every assistance in my
power in the cultivation and improvement of your farm.’--‘Go over,
both of you,’ says my father, ‘and thank his honor, and promise to do
everything he says.’ Accordingly, we did so; I made my scrape as well as
I could, and Mary blushed to the eyes, and dropp’d her curtshy.

“‘Ah!’ says the friar, ‘see what it is to have a good landlord and
a Christian gintleman to dale with. This is the feeling which should
always bind a landlord and his tenants together. If I know your
character, Squire Whitethorn, I believe you’re not the man that would
put a Protestant tenant over the head of a Catholic one, which shows,
sir, your own good sense; for what is a difference of religion, when
people do what they ought to do? Nothing but the name. I trust, sir, we
shall meet in a better place than this--both Protestant and Catholic’

“‘I am happy, sir,’ says the Squire, ‘to hear such principles from a man
who I thought was bound to hould different opinions.’

“‘Ah, sir!’ says the friar, ‘you little know who you’re talking to,
if you think so. I happened to be collecting a taste of oats, with the
permission of my friend Doctor Corrigan here, for I’m but a poor friar,
sir, and dropped in _by mere accident_; but, you know the hospitality of
our country, Squire; and that’s enough--go they would not allow me, and
I was mintioning to this young gintleman, your son, how we collected the
oats, and he insisted on my calling--a generous, noble child! I hope,
sir, you have got proper instructors for him?’

“‘Yes,’ said the Squire; ‘I’m taking care of that point.’

“What do you think, sir, but he insists on my calling over to-morrow,
that he may give me his share of oats, as I told him that I was a friar,
and that he was a little parishioner of mine: but I added, that that
wasn’t right of him, without his papa’s consent.’

“‘Well, sir,’ says the Squire, ‘as he has promised, I will support him;
so if you’ll ride over to-morrow, you shall have a sack of oats--at all
events I shall send you a sack in the course of the day.’

“‘I humbly thank you, sir,’ says Father Rooney and I thank my noble
little parishioner for his generosity to the poor old friar--God mark
you to grace, my dear; and wherever you go, take the ould man’s blessing
along with you.’

“They then bid us good-night, and we rose and saw them to the door.

“Father Corrigan now appeared to be getting sleepy. While this was
going on, I looked about me, but couldn’t see Mary. The tailor was just
beginning to get a little hearty once more. Supper waa talked of, but
there was no one that could ate anything; even the friar, was against
it. The clergy now got their horses, the friar laving his oats behind
him; for we promised to send them home, and something more along with
them the next day. Father James was roused up, but could hardly stir
with a _heddick_. Father Corrigan was correct enough; but when the friar
got up, he ran a little to the one side, upsetting Sonsy Mary that sat a
little beyond him. He then called over my mother-in-law to the dresser,
and after some collogin (* whispering) she slipped two fat fowl, that
had never been touched, into one of his coat pockets, that was big
enough to hould a leg of mutton. My father then called me over and said,
‘Shane,’ says he, ‘hadn’t you better slip Father Rooney a bottle or two
of that whiskey; there’s plenty of it there that wasn’t touched, and
you won’t be a bit the poorer of it, may be, this day twelve months.’ I
accordingly dropped two bottles of it into the other pocket, so that his
Reverence was well balanced any how.

“‘Now,’ said he, ‘before I go, kneel down both of you, till I give you my
benediction.’

“We accordingly knelt down, and he gave us his blessing in Latin before
he bid us good-night!

“After they went, Mary threw the stocking--all the unmarried folks
coming in the dark, to see who it would hit. Bless my sowl, but she
was the droll Mary--for what did she do, only put a big brogue of her
father’s into it, that was near two pounds weight; and who should it hit
on the bare sconce, but Billy Cormick, the tailor--who thought he was
fairly shot, for it levelled the crathur at once; though that wasn’t
hard to do any how.

“This was the last ceremony: and Billy was well continted to get the
knock, for you all know, whoever the stocking strikes upon is to be
married first. After this, my mother and mother-in-law set them to the
dancing--and ‘twas themselves that kept it up till long after daylight
the next morning--but first they called me into the next room where Mary
was; and--and--so ends my wedding; by the same token that I’m as dry as
a stick.”

“Come, Nancy,” says Andy Morrow, “replenish again for us all, with a
double measure for Shane Fadh--because he well desarves it.”

“Why, Shane,” observed Alick, “you must have a terrible memory of your
own, or you couldn’t tell it all so exact.”

“There’s not a man in the four provinces has sich a memory,” replied
Shane. “I never hard that story yet, but I could repate it in fifty
years afterwards. I could walk up any town in the kingdom, and let me
look at the signs and I would give them to you agin jist exactly as they
stood.”

Thus ended the account of Shane Fadh’s wedding; and, after finishing the
porter, they all returned home, with an understanding that they were to
meet the next night in the same place.



LARRY M’FARLAND’S WAKE.


The succeeding evening found them all assembled about Ned’s fireside in
the usual manner; where M’Roarkin, after a wheezy fit of coughing and
a draught of Nancy’s Porter, commenced to give them an account of
Larry M’Farland’s Wake. We have observed before, that M’Roarkin was
desperately asthmatic, a circumstance which he felt to be rather an
unpleasant impediment to the indulgence either of his mirth or sorrow.
Every chuckle at his own jokes ended in a disastrous fit of coughing;
and when he became pathetic, his sorrow was most ungraciously dissipated
by the same cause; two facts which were highly relished by his audience.

“Lakry M’Fakland, when a young man, was considered the best laborer
within a great ways of him; and no servant-man in the parish got within
five shillings a quarter of his wages. Often and often, when his time
would be near out, he’d have offers from the rich farmers and gintlemen
about him, of higher terms; so that he was seldom with one masther more
nor a year at the very most. He could handle a flail with e’er a man
that ever stepped in black leather; and at spade-work there wasn’t his
aquil. Indeed, he had a brain for everything: he could thatch better nor
many that arned their bread by it; could make a slide-car, straddle, or
any other rough carpenter work, that it would surprise you to think of
it; could work a kish or side creel beautifully; mow as much as any two
men, and go down a ridge of corn almost as fast as you could walk; was
a great hand at ditching, or draining meadows and bogs; but above all
things he was famous for building hay-ricks and corn-stacks; and when
Squire Farmer used to enter for the prize at the yearly plowing-match,
he was sure to borrow the loan of Larry from whatever master he happened
to be working with. And well he might, for the year out of four that
he hadn’t Larry he lost the prize: and every one knew that if Larry had
been at the tail of his plough, they would have had a tighter job of it
in beating him.

“Larry was a light, airy young man, that knew his own value; and was
proud enough, God knows, of what he could do. He was, indeed, two much
up to sport and divarsion, and never knew his own mind for a week. It
was against him that he never stayed long in one place; for when he
got a house of his own afterwards, he had no one that cared anything in
particular about him. Whenever any man would hire him, he’d take care
to have Easter and Whiss’n Mondays to himself, and one or two of
the Christmas Maragahmores.* He was also a great dancer, fond of
the dhrop--and used to dress above his station: going about with a
shop-cloth coat, cassimoor small-clothes, and a Caroline hat; so that
you would little think he was a poor sarvint-man, laboring for his
wages. One way or other, the money never sted long with him; but he
had light spirits, depended entirely on his good hands, and cared very
little about the world, provided he could take his own fling out of it.

     * Anglice--Big markets. There are three of these held before
     Christmas, and one or two before Easter, to enable the
     country folks to make their markets, and prepare for the
     more comfortably celebrating those great convivial
     festivals. They are almost as numerously attended as fairs;
     for which reason they are termed “big markets.”

“In this way he went on from year to year, changing from one master to
another; every man that would employ him thinking he might get him to
stop with him for a constancy. But it was all useless; he’d be off after
half a year, or sometimes a year at the most, for he was fond of roving;
and that man would never give himself any trouble about him afterwards;
though, may be if he had continted himself with him, and been sober and
careful, he would be willing to assist and befriend him, when he might
stand in need of assistance.

“It’s an ould proverb, that ‘birds of a feather flock together,’ and
Larry was a good proof of this, There was in the same neighborhood a
young woman name Sally Lowry, who was just the other end of himself (*
meaning his counterpart) for a pair of good hands, a love of dress and
of dances. She was well-looking, too, and knew it; light and showy, but
a tight and clane sarvint, any way. Larry and she, in short, began to
coort, and were pulling a coard together for as good as five or six
years. Sally, like Larry, always made a bargain, when hiring, to have
the holly-days to herself; and on these occasions she and Larry would
meet and sport their figure; going off with themselves, as soon as mass
would, be over, into Ballymavourneen, where he would collect a pack of
fellows about him, and she a set of her own friends; and there they’d
sit down and drink for the length of a day, laving themselves without a
penny of whatever little aiming the dress left behind it; for Larry was
never right, except when he was giving a thrate to some one or other.

“After corrousing away till evening, they’d then set off to a dance; and
when they’d stay there till it would be late, he should see her home, of
coorse, never parting till they’d settle upon meeting another day.

“At last they got fairly tired of this, and resolved to take one another
for better for worse. Indeed they would have done this long ago, only
that they could never get as much together as would pay the priest.
Howandever, Larry spoke to his brother, who was a sober, industrious
boy, that had laid by his _scollops_ for the windy-day,* and tould him
that Sally Lowry and himself were going to yoke for life. Tom was a
well-hearted, friendly lad, and thinking that Sally, who bore a good
name for being such a clane sarvint, would make a good wife, he lent
Larry two guineas, which along with two more that Sally’s aunt, who
had no childhre of her own, gave her, enabled them to over their
difficulties and get married. Shortly after this, his brother Tom
followed his example; but as he had saved something, he made up to Val
Slevin’s daughter, that had a fortune of twenty guineas, a cow and a
heifer, with two good chaff beds and bedding.

     * In Irish the proverb is--“Ha naha la na guiha la na
     scuilipagh:” that is, the windy or stormy day is not that on
     which the scollops should be cut. Scollops are osier twigs,
     sharpened at both ends, and inserted in the thatch, to bind
     it at the eave and rigging. The proverb inculcates
     preparation for future necessity.

“Soon after Tom’s marriage, he comes to Larry one day and says ‘Larry,
you and I are now going to face the world; we’re both young’, healthy,
and willin’ to work--so are our wives; and it’s bad if we can’t make out
bread for ourselves, I think.’

“‘Thrue for you, Tom,’ says Larry, ‘and what’s to hinder us? I only wish
we had a farm, and you’d see we’d take good bread out of it: for my
part there’s not another _he_ in the country I’d turn my back upon for
managing a farm, if I had one.’

“’ Well,’ says the other, ‘that’s what I wanted to overhaul as we’re
together; Squire Dickson’s steward was telling me yesterday, as I
was coming up from my father-in-law’s, that his master has a farm of
fourteen acres to set at the present time; the one the Nultys held, that
went last spring to America--‘twould be a dacent little take between
us.’

“‘I know every inch of it,’ says Larry, ‘and good strong land it is, but
it was never well wrought; the Nultys weren’t fit for it at all; for one
of them didn’t know how to folly a plough. I’d engage to make that land
turn out as good crops as e’er a farm within ten miles of it.’

“‘I know that, Larry,’ says Tom, ‘and Squire Dickson knows that no man
could handle it to more advantage. Now if you join me in it, whatever
means I have will be as much yours as mine; there’s two snug houses
under the one roof, with out-houses and all, in good repair--and if
Sally and Biddy will pull manfully along with us, I don’t see, with the
help of Almighty Grod, why we shouldn’t get on dacently, and soon be
well and comfortable to live.’

“‘Comfortable!’ savs Larry, ‘no, but wealthy itself, Tom: and let us
_at_ it at wanst; Squire Dickson knows what I can do as well as any man
in Europe; and I’ll engage won’t be hard upon us for the first year or
two; our best plan is to go to-morrow, for fraid some-other might get
the foreway of us.’

“The Squire knew very well that two better boys weren’t to be met with
than the same M’Farlands, in the way of knowing how to manage land; and
although he had his doubts as to Larry’s light and careless ways, yet he
had good depindance out of the brother and thought, on the whole, that
they might do very-well together. Accordingly, he set them the farm at
a reasonable rint, and in a short time they were both living on it with
their two wives. They divided the fourteen acres into aquil parts;
and for fraid were would be any grumbling between them about better or
worse, Tom proposed that they should draw lots, which was agreed to by
Larry; but, indeed, there was very little difference in the two halves;
for Tom took care, by the way he divided them, that none of them should
have any reason to complain. From the time they wint to live upon their
farms, Tom was up early and down late, improving it--paid attention to
nothing else; axed every man’s opinion as to what crop would be best for
such a spot, and to tell the truth he found very few, if any, able to
instruct him so well as his own brother Larry. He was no such laborer,
however, as Larry--but what he was short in, he made up by perseverance
and care.

“In the coorse ‘of two or three years you would hardly bleeve how he got
on, and his wife was every bit aquil to him. She spun the yarn for the
linen that made their own shirts and sheeting, bought an odd pound of
wool-now and then when she could get it chape, and put it past till she
had a stone or so; she would then sit down and spin it--get it wove
and dressed; and before one would know anything about it she’d have
the making of a dacent comfortable coat for Tom, and a bit of
heather-colored drugget for her own gown, along with a piece of striped
red and blue for a petticoat--all at very little cost.

“It wasn’t so with Larry. In the beginning, to be sure, while the fit
was on him, he did very well; only that he would go off an odd time to
a dance; or of a market or fair day, when he’d see the people pass by,
dressed in their best clothes, he’d take the notion, and sot off with
himself, telling Sally that he’d just go in for a couple of hours, to
see how the markets were going on.

“It’s always an unpleasant thing for a body to go to a fair or market
without anything in their pocket; accordingly, if money was in the
house, he’d take some of it with him, for fraid that any friend
or acquaintance might thrate him; and then it would be a poor,
mane-spirited thing, he would say, to take another man’s thrate, without
giving one for it. He’d seldom have any notion, though, of breaking in
upon or spinding the money, he only brought it to keep his pocket, jist
to prevent him from being shamed, should he meet a friend.

“In the manetime, Sally, in his absence, would find herself lonely, and
as she hadn’t, may be, seen her aunt for some time before, she’d lock
the door, and go over to spind a while with her; or take a trip as far
as her ould mistress’s place to see the family. Many a thing people will
have to say to one another about the pleasant times they had together,
or several other subjects best known to themselves, of coorse. Larry
would come home in her absence, and finding the door locked, would slip
down to Squire Dickson’s, to chat with the steward or gardener, or with
the sarvints in the kitchen.

“You all remimber Torn Hance, that kept the public-house at Tullyvernon
cross-roads, a little above the. Squire’s--at laste, most of you do--and
ould Willy Butledge, the fiddler, that spint his time between Tom’s and
the big house--God,be good to Wilty!--it’s himself was the droll man
entirely: he died of ating boiled banes, for a wager that the Squire
laid on him agin ould Captain Mint, and dhrinking porter after them
till he was swelled like a tun; but the Squire berried him at his own
expense. Well, Larry’s haunt, on finding Sally out when he came home,
was either at the Squire’s kitchen, or Tom Hance’s; and as he was the
broth of a boy at dancing, the sarvints, when he’d go down, would send
for Wilty to Hance’s, if he didn’t happen to be with themselves at the
time, and strike up a dance in the kitchen; and, along with all, may be
Larry would have a sup in his head.

“When Sally would come home, in her turn, she’d not find Larry before
her; but Larry’s custom was to go in to Tom’s wife, and say,--‘Biddy,
tell Sally, when she comes home, that I’m gone down awhile to the big
house (or to Tom Hance’s, as it might be), but I’ll not be long.’ Sally,
after waiting awhile, would put on her cloak, and slip down to see
what was keeping him. Of course, when finding the sport going on, and
carrying a light heel at the dance herself, she’d throw off the cloak,
and take a hand at it along with the rest. Larry and she would then go
their ways home, find the fire out, light a sod of turf in Tom’s,
and feeling their own place very cowld and naked, after the blazing
comfortable fire they had left behind them, go to bed, both in very
middling spirits entirely.

“Larry, at other times, would quit his work early in the evening, to go
down towards the Squire’s, bekase he had only to begin work earlier the
next day to make it up. He’d meet the Squire himself, may be, and, after
putting his hand to his hat, and getting a ‘how do you do, Larry,’
from his honor, enter into discoorse with him about his honor’s plan of
stacking his corn. Now, Larry was famous at this.

“‘Who’s to build your stacks this saison, your honor?’

“‘Tim Dillon, Larry.’

“‘Is it he, your honor?--he knows as much about building a stack of corn
as Mas-ther George, here. He’ll only botch them, sir, if you let him go
about them.’

“‘Yes;’ but what can I do, Larry? He’s the only man I have that I could
trust them to.’

“‘Then it’s your honor needn’t say that anyhow; for rather then see them
spoiled, I’d come down myself and put them up for you.’

“‘Oh, I couldn’t expect that, Larry.’

“Why, then, I’ll do it, your honor; and you may expect, me down in the
morning at six o’clock, plase God.’

“Larry would keep his word, though his own corn was drop-ripe; and
havin’ once undertaken the job, he couldn’t give it up till he’d, finish
it off dacently. In the meantime, his own crop would go to destruction;
sometimes a windy day would come, and not leave him every tenth grain;
he’d then get some one to cut it down for him--he had to go to the big
house, to build the master’s corn; he was then all bustle--a great
man entirely--there was _non_ such; would be up with, the first light,
ordering and commanding, and directing the Squire’s laborers, as if he
was the king of the castle. Maybe, ‘tis after he’d come from the big’
house, that he’d, collect a few of the neighbors, and get a couple of
cars and horses from the Squire, you see, to bring home his own oats to
the hagyard with moonlight, after the dews would begin to fall; and.
in a week afterwards every stack would be heated, and all in a reek of
froth and smoke. It’s not aisy to do anything in a hurry, and especially
it’s not aisy to build a corn-stack after night, when a man cannot see
how it goes on: so ‘twas no wonder if Larry’s stacks were supporting one
another the next day--one leaning north and another south.

“But, along with this, Larry and Sally were great people for going to
the dances that Hance used to have at the crass-roads, bekase he wished
to put money into his own pocket; and if a neighbor died, they were sure
to be the first at the wake-house--for Sally was a great hand at washing
down a corpse---and they would be the last home from the berril; for
you know, they couldn’t but be axed in to the dhrinking, after the
friends would lave the churchyard, to take a sup to raise their spirits
and drown sorrow, for grief is always drouthy.

“When the races, too, would come, they would be sure not to miss them;
and if you’d go into a tint, it’s odds but you’d find them among a knot
of acquaintances, dhrinking and dancing, as if the world was no trouble
to them. They were, indeed, the best nathured couple in Europe; they
would lend you a spade or a hook in potato time or harvest, out of pure
kindness, though their own corn, that was drop-ripe, should be uncut,
or their potatoes, that were a tramping every day with their own cows or
those of the neighbors, should be undug--all for fraid of being thought
unneighborly.

“In this way they went on for some years, not altogether so bad but that
they were able just to keep the house over their heads. They had a small
family of three children on their hands, and every likelihood of having
enough of them. Whenever they got a young one christened, they’d be sure
to have a whole lot of the neighbors at it; and surely some of the young
ladies, or Master George, or John, or Frederick, from the big house,
should stand gossip, and have the child called after them. They then
should have tay enough to sarve them, and loaf-bread and punch; and
though Larry should sell a sack of seed-oats or seed-potatoes to get
it, no doubt but there should be a bottle of wine, to thrate the young
ladies or gintlemen.

“When their childre grew up, little care was taken of them, bekase their
parents minded other people’s business more nor their own. They were
always in the greatest poverty and distress; for Larry would be killing
time about the Squire’s, or doing some handy job for a neighbor who
could get no other man to do it. They now fell behind entirely in the
rint, and Larry got many hints from the Squire that if he didn’t pay
more attention to his business, he must look after his arrears, or
as much of it as he could make up from the cattle and the crop. Larry
promised well, as far as words went, and no doubt hoped to be able to
perform; but he hadn’t steadiness to go through with a thing. Thruth’s
best;--you see both himself and his wife neglected their business in the
beginning, so that everything went at sixes and sevens. They then found
themselves uncomfortable at their own hearth, and had no heart to labor:
so that what would make a careful person work their fingers to the
stumps to get out of poverty, only prevented _them_ from working at all,
or druv them to work for those that had more comfort, and could give
them a better male’s mate than they had themselves.

“Their tempers, now, soon began to get sour: Larry thought, bekase Sally
wasn’t as careful as she ought to be, that if he had taken any other
young woman to his wife, he wouldn’t be as he was;--she thought the
very same thing of Larry. ‘If he was like another,’ she would say to his
brother, ‘that would be up airly and late at his own business, I would
have spirits to work, by rason it would cheer my heart to see our little
farm looking as warm and comfortable as anothers; but, _fareer gairh_
(* bitter misfortune) that’s not the case, nor likely to be so, for he
spinds his time from one place to another, working for them that laughs
at him for his pains; but he’d rather go to his neck in wather than lay
down a hand for himself, except when he can’t help it.’

“Larry, again, had his complaint--‘Sally’s a lazy trollop,’ he would
say to his brother’s wife, ‘that never does one hand’s turn that she
can help, but sits over the fire from morning till night, making bird’s
nests in the ashes with her yallow heels, or going about from one
neighbor’s house to another, gosthering and palavering about what
doesn’t consarn her, instead of minding the house. How can I have heart
to work, when I come in--expecting to find my dinner ready; but, instead
of that, get her sitting upon her hunkers on the hearthstone; blowing at
two or three green sticks with her apron, the pot hanging on the crook,
without even the white horses on it.* She never puts a stitch in my
clothes, nor in the childher’s clothes, nor in her own, but lets them
go to rags at once--the divil’s luck to her! I wish I had never met with
her, or that I had married a sober girl, that wasn’t fond of dress and
dancing. If she was a good sarvint, it was only because she liked to
have a good name; for when she got a house and place of her own, see how
she turned out!’

     * The white horses are produced by the extrication of air,
     which rises in white bubbles to the surface when the
     potatoes are beginning to boil; so that when the first
     symptoms of boiling commence, it is a usual phrase to say,
     the white horses are on the pot--sometimes the white friars.

“From less to more, they went on squabbling and fighting, until at last
you might see Sally one time with a black eye or a cut head, or another
time going off with herself, crying, up to Tom Hance’s or some other
neighbor’s house, to sit down and give a history of the ruction that
he and she had on the head of some trifle or another that wasn’t worth
naming. Their childher were shows, running about without a single stitch
upon them, except ould coats that some of the sarvints from the big
house would throw them. In these they’d go sailing about,with the long
skirts trailing on the ground behind them; and sometimes Larry would be
mane enough to take the coat from the gorsoon, and ware it himself. As
for giving them any schooling, ‘twas what they never thought of;
but even if they were inclined to it, there was no school in the
neighborhood to send them to, for God knows it’s the counthry that was
in a neglected state as to schools in those days, as well as now.

“It’s a thrue saying, that as the ould cock crows the young one larns;
and this was thrue here, for the childher fought one another like so
many divils, and swore like Trojans--Larry, along with everything else,
when he was a Brine-oge, thought it was a manly thing to be a great
swearer; and the childher, when they got able to swear, warn’t worse nor
their father. At first, when any of the little souls would thry at an
oath, Larry would break his heart laughing at them; and so, from one
thing to another, they got quite hardened in it, without being any way
checked in wickedness. Things at last drew on to a bad state, entirely.
Larry and Sally were now as ragged as Dives and Lazarus, and their
childher the same. It was no strange sight, in summer, to see the young
ones marching about the street as bare as my hand, with scarce a blessed
stitch upon them that ever was seen, they dirt and ashes to the eyes,
waddling after their uncle Tom’s geese and ducks, through the green
sink of rotten water that lay before their own door, just beside the
dunghill: or the bigger ones running after the Squire’s laborers, when
bringing home the corn or the hay, wanting to get a ride as they went
back with the empty cars.

“Larry and Sally would never be let into the Squire’s kitchen now to eat
or drink, or spend an evening with the sarvints; he might go out and in
to his meal’s mate along with the rest of the laborers, but there was
no _grah_ (* goodwill) for him. Sally would go down with her jug to get
some buttermilk, and have to stand among a set of beggars and cotters,
she as ragged and as poor as any of them, for she wouldn’t be let into
the kitchen till her turn came, no more nor another, for the sarvints
would turn up their noses with the greatest disdain possible at them
both.

“It was hard to tell whether the inside or the outside of their house
was worse;--within, it would amost turn your stomach to look at it--the
flure was all dirt, for how could it be any other way, when at the end
of every meal the _schrahag_* would be emptied down on it, and the pig,
that was whining and grunting about the door, would brake into the hape
of praty-skins that Sally would there throw down for it. You might reel
Larry’s shirt, or make a surveyor’s chain of it; for, bad cess (* Bad
success) to me, but I bleeve it would reach from this to the Bath. The
blanket was in tatthers, and, like the shirt, would go round the house:
their straw-beds were stocked with the _black militia_--the childer’s
heads were garrisoned with _Scotch greys_, and their heels and heads
ornamented with all description of kibes. There wor only two stools in
all the house, and a hassock of straw for the young child, and one of
the stools wanted a leg, so that it was dangerous for a stranger to sit
down upon it, except he knew of this failing. The flure was worn into
large holes, that were mostly filled up with slop, where the childher
used to daddle about, and amuse themselves by sailing egg-shells upon
them, with bits of boiled praties in them, by way of a little faste. The
dresser was as black as dirt could make it, and had on it only two or
three wooden dishes, clasped with tin, and noggins without hoops, a
beetle, and some crockery. There was an ould chest to hold their male,
but it wanted the hinges; and the childher, when they’d get the
mother out, would mix a sup of male and wather in a noggin, and stuff
themselves with it, raw and all, for they were almost starved.

“Then, as the cow-house had never been kept in repair, the roof fell in,
and the cow and pig had to stand in one end of the dwelling-house;
and, except Larry did it, whatever dirt the same cow and pig, and the
childher to the back of that, were the occasion of, might stand there
till Saturday night, when, for dacency’s sake, Sally herself would take
a shovel, and out with it upon the hape that was beside the sink before
the door. If a wet day came, there wasn’t a spot you could stand in for
_down-rain_; and wet or dry, Sally, Larry, and the childher were spotted
like trouts with the soot-dhrops, made by the damp of the roof and the
smoke. The house on the outside was all in ridges of black dirt, where
the thatch had rotted, or covered over with chickenweed or blind-oats;
but in the middle of all this misery they had a horseshoe nailed over
the door-head for good luck.

“You know, that in telling this story, I needn’t mintion everything just
as it happened, laying down year after year, or day and date; so you may
suppose, as I go on, that all this went forward in the coorse cf time.
They didn’t get bad of a sudden, but by degrees, neglecting one thing
after another, until they found themselves in the state I’m relating to
you--then struggling and struggling, but never taking the right way to
mend.

“But where’s the use in saying much more about it?--things couldn’t
stand--they were terribly in arrears; but the landlord was a good kind
of man, and, for the sake of the poor childher, didn’t wish to turn them
on the wide world, without house or shelter, bit or sup. Larry, too, had
been, and still was, so ready to do difficult and nice jobs for him, and
would resave no payment, that he couldn’t think of taking his only
cow from him or prevent him from raising a bit of oats’ or a plat of
potatoes, every year, out of the farm.--The farm itself was all run to
waste by this time, and had a miserable look about it--sometimes you
might see a piece of a field that had been ploughed, all overgrown with
grass, because it had never been sowed or set with anything. The slaps
were all broken down, or had only a piece of an ould beam, a thorn bush,
or crazy car lying acrass, to keep the cattle out of them. His bit of
corn was all eat away and cropped here and there by the cows, and his
potatoes rooted up by the pigs.--The garden, indeed, had a few cabbages,
and a ridge of early potatoes, but these were so choked with burtlocks
and nettles, that you could hardly see them.

“I tould you before that they led the divil’s life, and that was nothing
but God’s truth; and according as they got into greater poverty it
was worse. A day couldn’t pass without a fight; if they’d be at their
breakfust, maybe he’d make a potato hop off her skull, and she’d give
him the contents of her noggin of buttermilk about the eyes; then he’d
flake her, and the childher would be in an uproar, crying out, ‘Oh,
daddy, daddy, don’t kill my mammy!’ When this would be over, he’d go
off with himself to do something for the Squire, and would sing and
laugh so pleasant, that you’d think he was the best-tempered man alive;
and so he was, until neglecting his business, and minding dances, and
fairs, and drink, destroyed him.

“It’s the maxim of the world, that when a man is down, down with him;
but when a man goes down through his own fault, he finds very little
mercy from any one. Larry might go to fifty fairs before he’d meet
any one now to thrate him; instead of that, when he’d make up to them,
they’d turn away, or give him the cowld shoulder. But that wouldn’t
satisfy him: for if he went to buy a slip of a pig, or a pair of
brogues, and met an ould acquaintance that had got well to do in the
world, he should bring him in, and give him a dram, merely to let the
other see that he was still _able_ to do it; then, when they’d sit down,
one dram would bring on another from Larry, till the price of the pig or
the brogues would be spint, and he’d go home again as he came, sure to
have another battle with Sally.

“In this way things went on, when one day that Larry was preparing to
sell some oats a son of Nicholas Roe Sheridan’s of the Broad bog came
in to him. ‘Good-morrow,’ says he. ‘Good-morrow, kindly, Art,’ says
Larry--‘how are you, ma bou-chal?’

“‘Why I’ve no rason to complain, thank God, and you,’ says the other;
‘how is yourself?’

“‘Well, thank you, Art: how is the family?’

“‘Faix, all stout except my father, that has got a touch of the
toothache. When did you hear from the Slevins?’

“‘Sally was down on Thursday last, and they’re all well, your soul.’

“‘Where’s Sally now?’

“‘She’s just gone down to the big house for a pitcher of buttermilk; our
cow won’t calve these three weeks to come, and she gets a sup of kitchen
for the childher till then; won’t you take a sate, Art? but you had
better have a care of yourself, for that stool wants a leg.’

“‘I didn’t care she was within, for I brought a sup of my own stuff in
my pocket,’ said Art.

“‘Here, Hurrish’ (he was called Horatio after one of the Square’s sons),
‘fly down to the Square’s, and see what’s keeping your mother; the
divil’s no match for her at staying out with herself wanst she’s from
under the roof.’

“‘Let Dick go,’ says the little fellow, ‘he’s betther able to go nor I
am; he has got a coat on him.’

“‘Go yourself, when I bid you,’ says the father.

“‘Let him go,’ says Hurrish, ‘you have no right to bid me to go, when he
has a coat upon him: you promised to ax one for me from Masther Francis,
and you didn’t do it; so the divil a toe I’ll budge to-day,’ says he,
getting betune the father and the door.

“‘Well, wait,’ says Larry, ‘faix, only the strange man’s to the fore,
and I don’t like to raise a hubbub, I’d pay you for making me such an
answer. Dick, agra, will you run down, like a good bouchal, to the big
house, and tell your mother to come home, that there’s a strange man
here wants her?’

“‘Twas Hurrish you bid,’ says Dick--‘and make him: that’s the way he
always thrates you--does nothing that you bid him.’

“‘But you know, Dick,’ says the father, ‘that he hasn’t a stitch to his
back, and the crathur doesn’t like to go out in the cowld, and he so
naked.’

“‘Well, you bid him go,’ says Dick, ‘an let him; the sorrayard I’ll
go--the shinburnt spalpeen, that’s always the way with him; whatever
he’s bid to do, he throws it on me, bekase, indeed, he has no coat; but
he’ll folly Masther Thomas or Masther Francis through sleet and snow up
the mountains when they’re fowling or tracing; he doesn’t care about a
coat then.’

“‘Hurrish, you must go down for your mother when I bid you,’ says the
weak man, turning again to the other boy.

“I’ll not,’ says the little fellow; ‘send Dick.’

“Larry said no more, but, laying down the child he had in his hands,
upon the flure, makes at him; the lad, however, had the door of him, and
was off beyant his reach like a shot. He then turned into the house,
and meeting Dick, felled him with a blow of his fist at the dresser.
‘Tundher-an-ages, Larry,’ says Art, ‘what has come over you at all at
all? to knock down the gorsoon with such a blow! couldn’t you take a rod
or a switch to him?--_Dher manhim_, (* By my soul!) man, but I bleeve
you’ve killed him outright,’ says he, lifting the boy, and striving to
bring him to life. Just at this minit Sally came in.

“‘Arrah, sweet bad-luck to you, you lazy vagabond you,’ says Larry,
‘what kept you away till this hour?’

“‘The devil send you news, you nager you,’ says Sally, ‘what kept
me--could I make the people churn sooner than they wished or were
ready?’

“‘Ho, by my song, I’ll flake you as soon as the dacent young man leaves
the house,’ says Larry to her, aside.

“‘You’ll flake me, is it?’ says Sally, speaking out loud--‘in troth,
that’s no new thing for you to do, any how.’

“‘Spake asy, you had betther.’

“‘No, in troth, won’t I spake asy; I’ve spoken asy too long, Larry,
but the devil a taste of me will bear what I’ve suffered from you any
longer, you mane-spirited blackguard you; for he is nothing else that
would rise his hand to a woman, especially to one in my condition, and
she put her gown tail to her eyes. When she came in, Art turned his back
to her, for fraid she’d see the state the gorsoon was in--but now she
noticed it--

“‘Oh, murdher, murdher,’ says she, clapping her hands, and running over
to him, ‘what has happened my child? oh! murdher, murdher, this is your
work, murdherer!’ says she to Larry. ‘Oh, you villain, are you bent on
murdhering all of us--are you bent on destroying us out o’ the face! Oh,
wurrah sthrew! wurrah sthrew! what’ll become of us! Dick, agra,’ says
she, crying, ‘Dick, acushla machree, don’t you hear, me spaiking to
you!--don’t you hear your poor broken-hearted mother spaking to you? Oh!
wurrah! wurrah! amn’t I the heart-brokenest crathur that’s alive this
day, to see the likes of such doings! but I knew it would come to
this! My sowl to glory, but my child’s murdhered by that man standing
there!--by his own father--his own father! Which of us will you murther
next, you villain!’

“‘For heaven’s sake, Sally,’ says Art, ‘don’t exaggerate him more nor
he is--the boy is only stunned--see, he’s coming to: Dick, ma bouchal,
rouse yourself, that’s a man: hut! he’s well enough--that’s it, alannah;
here, take a slug out of this bottle, and it’ll set all right--or stop,
have you a glass within, Sally?’ ‘Och, inusha, not a glass is under the
roof wid me,’ says Sally; ‘the last we had was broke the night
Barney was christened, and we hadn’t one since--but I’ll get you an
egg-shell.’* ‘It’ll do as well as the best,’ says Art. And to make a
long story short, they sat down, and drank the bottle of whiskey among
them. Larry and Sally made it up, and were as great friends as ever; and
Dick was made drunk for the bating he got from his father.

     * The ready wit of the Irish is astonishing. It often
     happens that they have whiskey when neither glasses nor cups
     are at hand; in which case they are never at a loss. I have
     seen them use not only egg-shells, but pistol barrels,
     tobacco boxes, and scooped potatoes, in extreme cases.

“What Art wanted was to buy some oats that Larry had to sell, to run in
a private Still, up in the mountains, of coorse, where every Still is
kept. Sure enough, Larry sould him the oats, and was to bring them up to
the still-house the next night after dark. According to appointment, Art
came a short time after night-fall, with two or three young boys along
with him. The corn was sacked and put on the horses; but before that
was done, they had a dhrop, for Art’s pocket and the bottle were ould
acquaintances. They all then sat down in Larry’s, or, at laste, as many
as there were seats for, and fell to it. Larry, however, seemed to be
in better humor this night, and more affectionate with Sally and the
childher: he’d often look at them, and appear to feel as if something
was over him* but no one observed that till afterwards. Sally herself
seemed kinder to him, and even went over and sat beside him on the
stool, and putting her arm about his neck, kissed him in a joking
way, wishing to make up, too, for what Art saw the night before--poor
thing--but still as if it wasn’t all a joke, for at times she looked
sorrowful. Larry, too, got his arm about her, and looked, often and
often on her and the childher, in a way that he wasn’t used to do, until
the tears fairly came into his eyes.

     * This is precisely tantamount to what the Scotch call
     “fey.” It means that he felt as if some fatal doom were over
     him.

“‘Sally, avourneen,’ says he, looking at her, ‘I saw you when you had
another look from what you have this night; when it wasn’t asy to fellow
you _in_ the parish or _out_ of it;’ and when he said this he could
hardly spake.

“‘Whist, Larry, acushla,’ says she, ‘don’t be spaking that way--sure we
may do very well yet, plase God: I know, Larry, there was a great dale
of it--maybe, indeed, it was all my fault; for I wasn’t to you, in the
way of care and kindness, what I ought to be.’

“‘Well, well, aroon, says Larry, ‘say no more; you might have been all
that, only it was my fault: but where’s Dick, that I struck so terribly
last night? Dick, come over to me, agra--come over, Dick, and sit
down here beside me. Arrah, here, Art, ma bouchal, will you fill this
egg-shell for him?--Poor gorsoon! God knows, Dick, you get far from
fair play, acushla--far from the ating and drinking that other people’s
childher get, that hasn’t as good a skin to put it in as you, alannah!
Kiss me, Dick, acushla--and God knows your face is pale, and that’s not
with good feeding, anyhow: Dick, agra, I’m sorry for what I done to
you last night; forgive your father, Dick, for I think that my heart’s
breaking, acushla, and that you won’t have me long with you.’

“Poor Dick, who was naturally a warmhearted, affectionate gorsoon,
kissed his father, and cried bitterly. Sally herself, seeing Larry so
sorry for what he done, sobbed as if she would drop on the spot: but the
rest began, and betwixt scoulding and cheering them up, all was as well
as ever. Still Larry seemed as if there was something entirely very
strange the matter with him, for as he was going out, he kissed all the
childher, one after another; and even went over to the young baby that
was asleep in the little cradle of boords that he himself had made for
it, and kissed it two or three times, asily, for fraid of wakening it.
He then met Sally at the door, and catching her hand when none of
the rest saw him, squeezed it, and gave her a kiss, saying, ‘Sally,
darling!’ says he.

“‘What ails you, Larry, asthore?’ says Sally.

“‘I don’t know,’ says he; ‘nothing, I bleeve--but Sally, acushla, I have
thrated you badly all along. I forgot, avourneen, how I loved you _once_
and now it breaks my heart that I have used you so ill.’

“‘Larry she answered, ‘don’t be talking that way, bekase you make me
sorrowful and unasy--don’t, acushla: God above me knows I forgive you
it all. Don’t stay long,’ says she ‘and I’ll borry a lock of meal
from Biddy, till we get home our own meldhre, and I’ll have a dish of
stirabout ready to make for you when you come home. Sure, Larry, who’d
forgive you, if I, your own wife, wouldn’t? But it’s I that wants it
from you, Larry; and in the presence of God and ourselves, I now beg
your pardon, and ax your forgiveness for all the sin I done to you.’ She
dropped on her knees, and cried bitterly; but he raised her up, himself
a choking at the time, and as the poor crathur got to her feet, she laid
herself on his breast, and sobbed out, for she couldn’t help it. They
then went away, though Larry, to tell the thruth, wouldn’t have gone
with them at all, only that the sacks were borried from his brother, and
he had to bring them home, in regard of Tom wanting them the very next
day.

“The night was as dark as pitch--so dark, faiks, that they had to get
long pieces of bog fir, which they lit, and held in their hand, like the
lights that Ned there says the lamplighters have in Dublin to light the
lamps with.

“At last, with a good dale of trouble, they got to the still-house; and,
as they had all taken a drop before, you may be sure they were better
inclined, to take another now. They, accordingly, sat down about the
fine rousing fire that was under the still, and had a right good jorum
of strong whiskey that never seen a drop of water. They all were in very
good spirits, not thinking of to-morrow, and caring at the time very
little about the world as it went.

“When the night was far advanced, they thought of moving home; however,
by that time they weren’t able to stand: but it’s one curse of being
drunk, that a man doesn’t know what he’s about for the time, except some
few, like that poaching ould fellow, Billy M’Kinny, that’s cuinninger
when he’s drunk than when he’s sober; otherwise they would not have
ventured out in the clouds of the night, when it was so dark and severe,
and they in such a state.

“At last they staggered away together, for their road lay for a good
distance in the same direction. The others got on, and reached home as
well as they could; but, although Sally borried the dish of male from
her sister-in-law, to have a warm pot of stirabout for Larry, and sat
up till the night was more than half gone, waiting for him, yet no Larry
made his appearance. The childher, too, all sat up, hoping he’d
come home before they’d fall asleep and miss the supper: at last the
crathurs, after running about, began to get sleepy, and one head would
fall this way and another that way; so Sally thought it hard to let them
go without getting their share, and accordingly she put down the pot on
a bright fire, and made a good lot of stirabout for them, covering up
Larry’s share in a red earthen dish before the fire.

“This roused them a little; and they sat about the hearth with their
mother, keeping her company with their little chat, till their father
would come back.

“The night, for some time before this, got very stormy entirely. The
wind ris, and the rain fell as if it came out of methers.* The house was
very cowld, and the door was bad; for the wind came in very strong
under the foot of it, where the ducks and hens, and the pig when it was
little, used to squeeze themselves in when the family was absent, or
afther they went to bed. The wind now came whistling under it; and the
ould hat and rags, that stopped up the windies, were blown out half a
dozen times with such force, that the ashes were carried away almost
from the hearth. Sally got very low-spirited on hearing the storm
whistling so sorrowfully through the house, for she was afeard that
Larry might be out on the dark moors under it; and how any living soul
could bear it, she didn’t know. The talk of the childhre, too, made her
worse; for they were debating among themselves, the crathurs, about what
he had better do under the tempest; whether he ought to take the sheltry
side of a hillock, or get into a long heather bush or under the ledge of
a rock or tree, if he could meet such a thing.

     * An old Irish drinking vessel, of a square form, with a
     handle or ear on each side, out of which all the family
     drank successively, or in rotation. The expression above is
     proverbial.

“In the mane time, terrible blasts would come over and through the
house, making the ribs crack so that you would think the roof would be
taken away at wanst. The fire was now getting low, and Sally had no more
turf in the house; so that the childher crouched closer and closer about
it, their poor hungry-looking pale faces made paler with fear that the
house might come down upon them, or be stripped, and their father from
home--and with worse fear that something might happen him under such a
tempest of wind and rain as it blew. Indeed it was a pitiful sight to
see the ragged crathurs drawing in in a ring nearer and nearer the
dying fire; and their poor, naked, half-starved mother, sitting with her
youngest infant lying between her knees and her breast; for the bed was
too cowld to put it into it, without being kept warm by the heat of them
that it used to sleep with.”


“Musha, God help her and them,” says Ned, “I wish they were here beside
me on this comfortable hob, this minute; I’d fight Nancy to get a
fog-meal for them, any way--a body can’t but pity them afther all!”

“You’d fight Nancy!” said Nancy herself--“maybe Nancy would be as
willing to do something for the crathurs as you would--I like every body
that’s able to pay for what they get! but we ought to have some bowels
in us for all that. You’d fight Nancy, indeed!”

“Well,” continued the narrator, “there’ they sat, with cowld and fear in
their pale faces, shiverin’ over the remains of the fire, for it was now
nearly out, and thinking, as the deadly blast would drive through the
creaking ould door and the half-stuffed windies, of what their father
would do under such a terrible night. Poor Sally, sad and sorrowful, was
thinking of all their ould quarrels, and taking the blame all to herself
for not bein’ more attentive to her business, and more kind to Larry;
and when she thought of the way she thrated him, and the ill-tongue she
used to give him, the tears began to roll from her eyes, and she rocked
herself from side to side, sobbing as if her heart would brake. When
the childher saw her wiping her eyes with the corner of the little
handkerchief that she had about her neck, they began to cry along with
her. At last she thought, as it was now so late, that it would be folly
to sit up any longer; she hoped, too, that he might have thought of
going into some neighbor’s house on his way, to take shelter, and with
these thoughts, she raked the greeshough (* warm ashes and embers) over
the fire, and after, putting the childher in their little straw nest,
and spreading their own rags over them, she and the young one went to
bed, although she couldn’t sleep at all at all, for thinking of Larry.

“There she lay, trembling under the light cover of the bed-clothes, for
they missed Larry’s coat, listening to the dreadful night that was in
it, so lonely, that the very noise of the cow, in the other corner,
chewing her cud, in the silence of a short calm, was a great relief to
her. It was a long time before she could get a wink of sleep, for there
was some uncommon weight upon her that she couldn’t account for by any
chance; but after she had been lying for about half an hour, she heard
something that almost fairly knocked her up. It was the voice of a
woman, crying and wailing in the greatest distress, as if all belonging
to her were under-boord.

“When Sally heard it first, she thought it was nothing but the whistling
of the wind; but it soon came again, more sorrowful than before, and as
the storm arose, it rose upon the blast along with it, so strange and
mournful that she never before heard the like of it. ‘The Lord be about
us!’ said she to herself, ‘what can that be at all?--or who is it? for
its not Nelly,’ maning her sister-in-law. Again she listened, and there
was, sobbing and sighing in the greatest grief, and she thought she
heard it louder than ever, only that this time it seemed to name
whomsoever it was lamenting. Sally now got up and put her ear to the
door, to see if she could hear what it said. At this time the wind
got calmer, and the voice also got lower; but although it was still
sorrowful, she never heard any living Christian’s voice so sweet, and
what was very odd, it fell in fits, exactly as the storm sunk, and rose
as it blew louder.

“When she put her ear to the chink of the door, she heard the words
repeated, no doubt of it, only couldn’t be quite sure, as they wern’t
very plain; but as far as she could make any sense out of them, she
thought that it said--‘Oh, Larry M’Farland!--Larry M’Farland!--Larry
M’Farland!’

“Sally’s hair stood on end when she heard this; but on listening again,
she thought it was her own name instead of Larry’s that it repeated,
and that it said, ‘Sally M’Farland!--Sally M’Farland!--Sally M’Farland!’
Still she wasn’t sure, for the words wern’t plain, and all she could
think was, that they resembled her own name or Larry’s more than any
other words she knew. At last, as the wind fell again, it melted away,
weeping most sorrowfully, but so sweetly, that the likes of it was never
heard. Sally then went to bed, and the poor woman was so harrished with
one thing or another, that at last she fell asleep.”

“‘Twas the Banshee,” said Shane Fadh.

“Indeed it was nothing else than that same,” replied M’Roarkin.

“I wonder Sally didn’t think of-that,” said Nancy--“sure she might know
that no living crathur would be out lamenting under such a night as that
was.”

“She did think of that,” said Tom; “but as no Banshee ever followed
_her own_* family, didn’t suppose that it could be such a thing; but she
forgot that it might follow Larry’s. I, myself, heard his brother Tom
say, afterwards, that a Banshee used always to be heard before any of
them died.”

     * The Banshee in Ireland is, or rather was, said to follow
     only particular families--principally the Old Milesians. It
     appeared or was heard before the death of any member of the
     family. Its form was always that of a female--weeping,
     wailing, wringing its hands, and uttering the national
     keene, or lamentation for the dead. Banshee signifies gentle
     woman.

“Did his brother hear it?” Ned inquired.

“He did,” said Tom, “and his wife along with him, and knew, at once,
that some death would happen in the family--but it wasn’t long till he
suspected who it came for; for, as he was going to bed that night, on
looking towards his own hearth, he thought he saw his brother standing
at the fire, with a very sorrowful face upon him. ‘Why, Larry,’ says he,
‘how did you get in, after me barring the door?--or did you turn back
from helping them with the corn? You surely hadn’t time to go half the
way since.’

[Illustration: PAGE 713-- ‘Why, Larry,’ says he, ‘how did you get in’]

“Larry, however, made him no answer; and, on looking for him again,
there was no Larry there for him. ‘Nelly,’ says he to his wife,
‘did you see any sight of Larry since, he went to the still-house?’
‘Arrah, no indeed, Tom,’ says she; ‘what’s coming over you to spake to
the man that’s near Drum-furrar by this time?’ ‘God keep him from harm!’
said Tom;--‘poor fellow, I wish nothing ill may happen him this night!
I’m afeard, Nelly, that I saw his _fetch_;* and if I did, he hasn’t long
to live; for when one’s fetch is seen at this time of night, their lase
of life, let them be sick or in health, is always short.’

     * This in the North of Ireland is called wraith, as in
     Scotland. The Fetch is a spirit that assumes the likeness of
     a particular person. It does not appear to the individual
     himself whose resemblance it assumes, but to some of his
     friends. If it is seen in the morning, it betokens long
     life; if after sunset, approaching death; after nightfall,
     immediate death.

“‘Hut, Tom aroon!’ says Nelly, ‘it was the shadow of the jamb or
yourself you saw in the light of the candle, or the shadow of the
bed-post.’

“The next morning they were all up, hoping that he would drop in to
them. Sally got a creel of turf, notwithstanding her condition, and put
down a good fire to warm him; but the morning passed, and no sign of
him. She now got very unasy, and mintioned to his brother what she felt,
and Tom went up to the still-house to know if he was there, or to try if
he could get any tidings of him. But, by the laws! when he heard that
he had left that for home the night before, and he in a state of liquor,
putting this, and what he had heard and seen in his house together, Tom
knew that something must have happened him. He went home again, and on
his way had his eye about him, thinking that it would be no miracle, if
he’d meet him lying head-foremost in a ditch; however, he did not, but
went on, expecting to find him at home before him.

“In the mane time, the neighbors had been all raised to search for him;
and, indeed, the hills were alive with people. It was the second day
after, that Sally was standing, looking out at her own door towards the
mountains, expecting that every man with a blue coat upon him might be
Larry, when she saw a crowd of people coming down the hills. Her heart
leaped to her mouth, and she sent Dick, the eldest of the sons, to meet
them, and run back with word to her if he was among them. Dick went
away; but he hadn’t gone far when he met his uncle Tom, coming on before
the rest.

“‘Uncle,’ says Dick, ‘did you get my father? for I must fly back with
word to my mother, like lightning.’

“‘Come here, Dick,’ says Tom; ‘God help you, my poor bouchal (*
boy)--Come here, and walk alongside of me, for you can’t go back to your
mother, till I see her first--God help you, my poor bouchal, it’s you
that’s to be pitied, this blessed and sorrowful day;’ and the poor
fellow could by no means keep in the tears. But he was saved the trouble
of breaking the dismal tidings to poor Sally; for as she stood watching
the crowd, she saw a door carried upon their shoulders, with something
like a man stretched upon it. She turned in, feeling as if a bullet had
gone through her head, and sat down with her back to the door, for fraid
she might see the thruth, for she couldn’t be quite sure, they we’re at
such a distance. At last she ventured to take another look out, for she
couldn’t bear what she felt within her, and just as she rose and came
to the door, the first thing she saw coming down the hill a little above
the house, was the body of her husband stretched on a door--dead. At
that minute, her brother-in-law, Tom, just entered, in time to prevent
her and the child she had in her arms from falling on the flure. She
had seen enough, God help her!--for she took labor that instant, and, in
about two hours, afterwards, was stretched a corpse beside her husband,
with her heart-broken and desolate orphans in an uproar of outher misery
about them. That was the end of Larry M’Farland and Sally Lowry;
two that might have done well in the world, had they taken care of
themselves--avoided, fairs and markets--except when they had business
there--not given themselves idle fashions by drinking, or going to
dances, and wrought as well for themselves as they did for others.”

“But how did he lose his life, at all at all?” inquired Nancy.

“Why, they found his hat in a bog-hole upon the water, and on searching
the hole itself poor Larry was fished up from the bottom of it.”

“Well, that’s a murdhering sorrowful story,” said Shane Fadh: “but you
won’t be after passing that on us for the wake, ainy how.”

“Well, you must learn patience, Shane,” said the narrator, “for you know
patience is a virtue.”

“I’ll warrant you that Tom and his wife made a better hand of
themselves,” said Alick M’Kinley, “than Larry and Sally did.”

“Ah! I wouldn’t fear, Alick,” said Tom, “but you would come at the
truth--‘tis you that may say they did; there wasn’t two in the parish
more comfortable than the same two, at the very time that Larry and
Sally came by their deaths. It would do you good to look at their
hagyard--the corn stacks were so nately roped and trimmed, and the walls
so well made up, that a bird could scarcely get into it. Their barn and
cowhouse, too, and dwelling-house, were all comfortably thatched, and
the windies all glazed, with not a broken pane in them. Altogether they
had come on wondherfully; sould a good dale of male and praties every
year; so that in a short time they were able to lay by a little money
to help to fortune off their little girls, that were growing up fine
colleens, all out.”

“And you may add, I suppose,” said Andy Morrow, “that they lost no time
going to fairs and dances, or other foolish divarsions. I’ll engage
they never were at a dance in the Squire’s kitchen; that they never went
about losing their time working for others, when their own business
was going at sixes and sevens, for want of hands; nor spent their money
drinking and thrating a parcel of friends that only laugh at them for
their pains, and wouldn’t, maybe, put one foot past the other to sarve
them; nor never fought and abused one another for what they both were
guilty of.”

“Well,” says Tom, “you have saved me some trouble, Mr. Morrow, for you
just said, to a hair, what they were. But I mustn’t forget to mintion
one thing that I saw the morning of the berril. We were,--about a dozen
neighbors of us, talking in the street, just before the door; both the
hagyards were forninst us--Tom’s snug and nate--but Charley Lawdher had
to go over from where we stood to drive the pig out of poor Larry’s.
There was one of the stacks with the side out of it, just as he had
drawn away the sheaves from time to time; for the stack leaned to one
side, and he pulled sheaves out of the other side to keep it straight.
Now, Mr. Morrow, wasn’t he an unfortunate man? for whoever would go down
to Squire Dickson’s hagyard, would see the same Larry’s handiwork so
beautiful and illegant, though his own was in such _brutheen_.* Even
his barn to wrack; and he was obliged to thrash his oats in the open air
when ther would be a frost, and he used to lose one-third of it; and if
there came a thaw, ‘twould almost brake the crathur.”

     * Brutheen is potatoes champed with butter. Anything in a
     loose, broken, and irregular state, is said to be in
     brutheen--that is in disorder and contusion.

“God knows,” said Nancy, looking over at Ned very significantly, “and
Larry’s not alone in neglecting his business; that is, if certain people
were allowed to take their own way; but the truth of it is, that he met
with a bad woman. If he had a careful, sober, industrious wife of his
own, that would take care of the house and place--(_Biddy, will you hand
me over that other dew out of the windy-stool there till I finish this
stocking for Ned_)--the story would have another ending any how.”

“In throth,” said Tom, “that’s no more than thruth, Nancy; but he had
not, and everything went to the bad with them entirely.”

“It’s a thousand pities he hadn’t yourself, Nancy,” said Alick,
grinning; “if he had, I haven’t the laste doubt at all, but he’d die
worth money.”

“Go on, Alick--go on, Avick; I will give you lave to have your joke,
any way; for it’s you that’s the patthern to any man that would wish to
thrive in the world.”

“If Ned dies, Nancy, I don’t know a woman I’d prefer; I’m now a widdy’
these five years; and I feel, somehow, particularly since I began
to spend my evenings here, that I’m disremembering very much the old
proverb--a burnt child, dreads the fire.’”

     * The peasantry of a great portion of Ireland use this word
     as applicable to both sexes.

“Thank you, Alick; you think I swallow that; but as for Ned, the never
a fear of him; except that an increasing stomach is a sign of something;
or what’s the best chance of all, Alick, for you and me, that he should
meet Larry’s fate in some of his drunken fits.”

“Now, Nancy,” says Ned, “there’s no use in talking that way; it’s only
last Thursday, Mr. Morrow, that, in presence of her own brother, Jemmy
Connolly, the breeches-maker, and Billy M’Kinny, there, that I put my
two five fingers acrass, and swore solemnly by them five crosses,
that, except my mind changed, I’d never drink more nor one-half pint of
spirits and three pints of porther in a day.”

“Oh, hould your tongue, Ned--hould your tongue, and don’t make me
spake,” said Nancy; “God help you! many a time you’ve put the same
fingers acrass, and many a time your mind has changed; but I’ll say no
more now--wait till we see how you’ll keep it.”

“Healths a-piece, your sowls,” said Ned, winking at the company.

“Well, Tom,” said Andy Morrow, “about the wake?”

“Och, och! that was the merry wake, Mr. Morrow. From that day to this I
remarked, that, living or dead, them that won’t respect themselves, or
take care of their families, won’t be respected: and sure enough, I saw
full proof of that same at poor Larry’s wake. Many a time afterwards I
pitied the childher, for if they had seen better, they wouldn’t turn out
as they did--all but the two youngest, that their uncle took to himself,
and reared afterwards; but they had no one to look afther them, and how
could it be expected from what they seen, that good could come of them?
Squire Dickson gave Tom the other seven acres, although he could have
got a higher rint from others; but he was an industrious man that
desarved encouragement, and he got it.”

“I suppose Tom was at the expense of Larry’s berrin, as well as of his
marriage,” said Alick.

“In troth and he was,” said Tom, “although he didn’t desarve it from him
when he was alive;* seeing he neglected many a good advice that Tom
and his dacent woman of a wife often gave him; for all that, blood is
thicker than wather--and it’s he that waked and berried him dacently; by
the same token that there was both full and plenty of the best over him:
and everything, as far as Tom was consarned, dacint and creditable about
the place.”

     * The genuine blunders of the Irish--not those studied for
     them by men ignorant of their modes of expression and habits
     of life--are always significant, clear, and full of strong
     sense and moral truth.

“He did it for his own sake, of coorse,” said Nancy, “bekase one
wouldn’t wish, if--they had it at all, to see any one belonging to them
worse off than another at their wake or berrin.”

“Thrue for you, Nancy,” said M’Roarkin, “and, indeed, Tom was well
spoken of by the neighbors for his kindness to his brother after his
death; and luck and grace attended him for it, and the world flowed upon
him before it came to his own turn.”

“Well, when a body dies even a natural death, it’s wondherful how soon
it goes about; but when they come to an untimely one, it spreads like
fire on a dry mountain.”

“Was there no inquest?” asked Andy Morrow.

“The sorra inquist, not making you an ill answer, sir--the people
weren’t so exact in them days: but any how the man was dead, and what
good could an inquist do him? The only thing that grieved them was, that
they both died without the priest; and well it might, for it’s an awful
thing entirely to die without having the clargy’s hands over a body.
I tould you that the news of his death spread over all the counthry
in less than no time. Accordingly, in the coorse of the day, their
relations began to come to the place; but, any way, messengers had been
sent especially for them.

“The squire very kindly lent sheets for them both to be laid out in,
and mould candle-sticks to hould the lights; and, God he knows, ‘twas
a grievous sight to see the father and mother both stretched beside one
another in their poor place, and their little orphans about them; the
gorsoons,--them that had sense enough to know their loss,--breaking
their hearts, the craythurs, and so hoarse, that they weren’t able to
cry or spake. But, indeed, it was worse to see the two young things
going over, and wanting to get acrass to waken their daddy and mammy,
poor desolit childher!

“When the corpses were washed and dressed, they looked uncommonly well,
consitherin’. Larry, indeed, didn’t bear death so well as Sally; but
you couldn’t meet a purtier corpse than she was in a day’s travelling.
I say, when they were washed and dressed, their friends and neighbors
knelt down around them, and offered up a Pather and Ave a-piece, for
the good of their sowls: when this was done, they all raised the keena,
stooping over them at a half bend, clapping their hands, and praising
them, as far as they could say anything good of them; and indeed, the
craythurs, they were never any one’s enemy but their own, so that nobody
could say an ill word of either of them. Bad luck to it for potteen-work
every day it rises! only for it, that couple’s poor orphans wouldn’t be
left without father or mother as they were; nor poor Hurrish go the gray
gate he did, if he had his father living, may be; but having nobody
to bridle him in, he took to horse riding for the squire, and then to
staling them for himself. He was hanged afterwards, along with Peter
Doraghy Crolly, that shot Ned Wilson’s uncle of the Black Hills.

“After the first keening, the friends and neighbors took their sates
about the corpse. In a short time, whiskey, pipes, snuff, and tobacco
came, and every one about the place got a glass and a fresh pipe. Tom,
when he held his glass in his hand, looking at his dead brother, filled
up to the eyes, and couldn’t for some time get out a word; at last,
when he was able to spake--‘Poor Larry,’ says he, ‘you’re lying there low
before me, and many a happy day we spint with one another. When we were
childher,’ said he, turning to the rest, ‘we were never asunder; he was
oulder nor me by two years, and can I ever forget the leathering he gave
Dick Rafferty long ago, for hitting me with the rotten egg--although
Dick was a great dale bigger than either of us. God knows, although you
didn’t thrive in life, either of you, as you might and could have done,
there wasn’t a more neighborly or friendly couple in the parish they
lived in; and now, God help them both, and their poor orphans over them!
Larry, acushla, your health, and Sally, yours; and may God Almighty have
marcy on both your sowls.’

“After this, the neighbors began to flock in more generally. When any
relation of the corpses would come, as soon, you see, as they’d get
inside the door, whether man or woman, they’d raise the shout of a
keena, and all the people about the dead would begin along with them,
stooping over them and clapping their hands as before.

“Well, I said, it’s it that was the merry wake, and that was only the
thruth, neighbors. As soon as night came, all the young boys and girls
from the countryside about them flocked to it in scores. In a short
time the house was crowded; and maybe there wasn’t laughing, and
story-telling, and singing, and smoking, and drinking, and crying--all
going on, heller-skelter, together. When they’d be all in full chorus
this way, may be, some new friend or relation, that wasn’t there before,
would come in, and raise the keena; of coorse, the youngsters would then
keep quiet; and if the person coming in was from the one neighborhood
with any of them that were so merry, as soon as he’d raise the shout,
the merry folks would rise up, begin to pelt their hands together, and
cry along with him till their eyes would be as red as a ferret’s.
That once over, they’d be down again at the songs, and divarsion, and
divilment--just as if nothing of the kind had taken place: the other
would then shake hands with the friends of the corpses, get a glass or
two, and a pipe, and in a few minutes be as merry as the best of them.”

“Well,” said Andy Morrow, “I should like to know if the Scotch and
English are such heerum-skeerum kind of people as we Irishmen are.”

“Musha, in throth I’m sure they’re not,” says Nancy, “for I believe
that Irishmen are like nobody in the wide world but themselves; quare
crathurs, that’ll laugh or cry, or fight with any one, just for nothing
else, good or bad but company.”

“Indeed, and you all know, that what I’m sayin’s thruth, except Mr.
Morrow there, that I’m telling it to, bekase he’s not in the habit of
going to wakes; although, to do him justice he’s very friendly in going
to a neighbor’s funeral; and, indeed, _kind father for you_* Mr. Morrow,
for it’s he that was a real good hand at going to such places.

     * That is, in this point you are the, same kind as your
     father; possessing that prominent trait in his disposition
     or character.

“Well, as I was telling you, there was great sport going on. In one
corner, you might see a knot of ould men sitting together, talking over
ould times--ghost stores, fairy tales, or the great rebellion of ‘41,
and the strange story of Lamh Dearg, or the _bloody hand_--that,
maybe, I’ll tell you all some other night, plase God: there they’d sit
smoking--their faces quite plased with the pleasure of the pipe--amusing
themselves and a crowd of people, that would be listening to them with
open mouth. Or, it’s odd, but there would be some droll young fellow
among them, taking a rise out of them; and, positively, he’d often find,
them able enough for him, particularly ould Ned Magin, that wanted at
the time only four years of a hundred. The Lord be good to him, and rest
his sowl in glory, it’s he that was the pleasant ould man, and could
tell a story with any one that ever got up.

“In another corner there was a different set, bent on some piece of
divilment of their own. The boys would be sure to get beside their
sweethearts, any how; and if there was a purty girl, as you may set it
down there was, it’s there the _skroodging_, (* pressure of the crowd)
and the pushing, and the shoving, and, sometimes, the knocking down
itself, would be, about seeing who’d get her. There’s ould Katty Duffy,
that’s now as crooked as the hind leg of a dog, and it’s herself was
then as straight as a rush, and as blooming as a rose--Lord bless
us, what an alteration time makes upon the strongest and fairest of
us!--it’s she that was the purty girl that night, and it’s myself that
gave Frank M’Shane, that’s still alive to acknowledge it, the broad of
his back upon the flure, when he thought to pull her off my knee. The
very gorsoons and girshas were sporting away among themselves, and
learning one another to smoke in the dark corners. But all this, Mr.
Morrow, took place in the corpse-house, before ten or eleven o’clock at
night; after that time the house got too thronged entirely, and couldn’t
huld the half of them; so by jing, off we set, maning all the youngsters
of us, both boys and girls, out to Tom’s barn, that was _red up_ (*
Cleared up for us--set in order), there to commence the plays. When we
were gone, the ould people had more room, and they moved about on the
sates we had left them. In the mane time, lashings of tobacco and snuff,
cut in platefuls, and piles of fresh new pipes, were laid on the table
for any one that wished to use them.

“When we got to the barn, it’s then we _took our pumps off_ (* Threw
aside all restraint) in airnest--by the hokey, such sport you never saw.
The first play we began was _Hot-loof_; and maybe there wasn’t skelping
then. It was the two parishes of Errigle-Keeran and Errigle-Truagh
against one another. There was the Slip from Althadhawan, for
Errigle-Truagh, against Pat M’Ardle, that had married Lanty Gorman’s
daughter of Cargach, for Errigle-Keeran. The way they play it, Mr.
Morrow, is this--two young men out of each parish go out upon the
flure--one of them stands up, then bends himself, sir, at a half bend,
placing his left hand behind on the back part of his ham, keeping it
there to receive what it’s to get. Well, there he stands, and the other
coming behind him, places his left foot out before him, doubles up the
cuff of his coat, to give his hand and wrist freedom: he then rises his
right arm, coming down with the heel of his hand upon the other
fellow’s palm, under him, with full force. By jing, it’s the divil’s own
divarsion; for you might as well get a stroke of a sledge as a blow
from one of them able, hard-working fellows, with hands upon them like
lime-stone. When the fellow that’s down gets it hot and heavy, the man
that struck him stands bent in his place, and some friend of the other
comes down upon him, and pays him for what the other fellow got.

“In this way they take it, turn about, one out of each parish, till it’s
over; for I believe if they were to pelt one another _since_ (* from
that hour to this), that they’d never give up. Bless my soul, but it was
terrible to hear the strokes that the Slip and Pat M’Ardle did give that
night. The Slip was a young fellow upwards of six feet, with great able
bones and little flesh, but terrible thick shinnins (*sinews); his wrist
was as hard and strong as a bar of iron. M’Ardle was a low, broad man,
with a rucket head and bull neck, and a pair of shoulders that you
could hardly get your arms about, Mr. Morrow, long as they are; it’s he,
indeed, that was the firm, well built chap, entirely. At any rate, a man
might as well get a kick from a horse as a stroke from either of them.

“Little Jemmy Teague, I remimber, struck a cousin of the Slip’s a very
smart blow, that made him dance about the room, and blow his fingers for
ten minutes after it. Jemmy, himself, was a tight, smart fellow. When
the Slip saw what his cousin had got, he rises up, and stands over
Jemmy so coolly, and with such good humor, that every one in the house
trembled for poor Jemmy, bekase, you see, whenever the Slip was bent
on mischief, he used always to grin. Jemmy, however, kept himself bent
firm; and to do him justice, didn’t flinch from under the stroke, as
many of them did--no, he was like a rock. Well, the Slip, as I said,
stood over him, fixing himself for the stroke, and coming down with such
a pelt on poor Jemmy’s hand, that the first thing we saw was the blood
acrass the Slip’s own legs and feet, that had burst out of poor Jemmy’s
finger-ends. The Slip then stooped to receive the next blow himself, and
you may be sure there was above two dozen up to be at him. No matter;
one man they all gave way to, and that was Pat M’Ardle.

“‘Hould away,’ says Pat,--‘clear off, boys, all of you--this stroke’s
mine by right, any how;--and,’ says he, swearing a terrible oath, ‘if
you don’t sup sorrow for that stroke,’ says he to the Slip, ‘why Pat
M’Ardle’s not behind you here.’

“He, then, up with his arm, and came down--why, you would think that the
stroke he gave the Slip had druv his right hand into his body: but, any
way, it’s he that took full satisfaction for what his cousin got; for
if the Slip’s fingers had been cut off at the tops, the blood couldn’t
spring out from under his nails more nor it did. After this the Slip
couldn’t strike another blow, bekase his hand was disabled out and out.

“The next play they went to was the _Sitting Brogue_. This is played by
a ring of them sitting down upon the bare ground, keeping their knees
up. A shoemaker’s leather apron is then got, or a good stout brogue, and
sent round under their knees. In the mane time one stands in the middle;
and after the brogue is sent round, he is to catch it as soon as he
can. While he stands there, of course, his back must be to some one, and
accordingly those that are behind him thump him right and left with
the brogue, while he, all the time, is striving to catch it. Whoever he
catches this brogue with must stand up in his place, while he sits down
where the other had been, and then the play goes on as before.

“There’s another play called the _Standing Brogue_--where one man gets a
brogue of the same kind, and another stands up facing him with his hands
locked together, forming an arch turned upside down. The man that houlds
the brogue then strikes him with it betune the hands; and even the
smartest fellow receives several pelts before he is able to close his
hands and catch it; but when he does, he becomes brogueman, and the man
who held the brogue stands for him, until he catches it. The same thing
is gone through, from one, to another, on each side, until it is over.

“The next is _Frimsy Framty_, and is played in this manner:--A chair or
stool is placed in the middle of the flure, and the man who manages the
play sits down upon it, and calls his sweetheart, or the prettiest girl
in the house. She, accordingly, comes forward, and must kiss him.
He then rises up, and she sits down. ‘Come, now,’ he says, ‘fair
maid--Frimsy framsy, who’s your fancy?’ She then calls them she likes
best, and when the young man she calls comes over and kisses her, he
then takes her place, and calls another girl--and so on, smacking away
for a couple of hours. Well, throth, it’s no wonder that Ireland’s full
of people; for I believe they do nothing but coort from the time they’re
the hoith of my leg. I dunno is it true, as I hear Captain Sloethern’s
steward say, that the Englishwomen are so fond of Irishmen?”

“To be sure it is,” said Shane Fadh; “don’t I remimber myself, when Mr.
Fowler went to England--and he as fine looking a young-man, at the time,
as ever got into a saddle--he was riding up the street of London, one
day, and his servant after him--and by the same token he was a thousand
pound worse than nothing; but no matter for that, you see luck was
before him--what do you think, but a rich dressed livery servant came
out, and stopping the Squire’s man, axed whose servant he was?

“‘Why, thin,’ says Ned Magavran, who-was his body servant at the time,
‘bad luck to you, you spalpeen, what a question do you ax, and you
have eyes in your head!’ says he--‘hard feeling to you!’ says he, ‘you
vagabone, don’t you see I’m my master’s?’

“The Englishman laughed. ‘I know that, Paddy,’ says he--for they call
us all Paddies in England, as if we had only one name among us, the
thieves; ‘but I wish to know his name,’ says the Englishman.

“‘You do!’ says Ned; ‘and by the powers!’ says he, ‘but you must first
tell me which side of the head you’d wish to hear it an.’

“‘Oh! as for that,’ says the Englishman--not up to him, you see----‘I
don’t care much, Paddy, only let me hear it, and where he lives.’

“‘Just keep your ground, then,’ says Ned, ‘till I light off this
blood-horse of mine’--he was an ould garron that was fattened up, not
worth forty shillings--‘this blood-horse of mine,’ says Ned, ‘and I’ll
tell you.’

“So down he gets, and lays the Englishman sprawling in the channel.

“’ Take that, you vagabone! says he, and it’ll larn you to call
people by their right names agin: I was christened as well as you, you
spalpeen!’

“All this time the lady was looking out of the windy, breaking her heart
laughing at Ned and the servant; but, behould!--she knew a thing or two,
it seems; for, instead of sending a man at all at all, what does she do
but sends her own maid--a very purty girl, who comes up to Ned, putting
the same question to him.

“‘What’s his name, avourneen?’ says Ned, melting, to be sure, at the
sight of her ‘Why, then, darling, who could refuse you anything?--but,
you jewel! by the hoky, you must bribe me or I’m dumb,’ says he.

“‘How could I bribe you?’ says she, with a sly smile--for Ned himself
was a well-looking young fellow at the time.

“‘I’ll show you that,’ says Ned, ‘if you tell me where you live; but,
for fraid you forget it--with them two lips of your own, my darling.’

“‘There, in that great house,’ says the maid; ‘my mistress is one of the
beautifullest and richest young ladies in London, and she wishes to know
where your master could be heard of.’

“‘Is that the house?’ says Ned, pointing to it.

“‘Exactly’, says she: ‘that’s it.’ ‘Well, acushla,’ says he, ‘you’ve a
purty and an innocent-looking face; but I’m tould there’s many a trap in
London well baited. Just only run over while I’m looking at you, and let
me see that purty face of yours smiling at me out of the windy that that
young lady is peeping at us from.’

“This she had to do.

“‘My master,’ thought Ned, while she was away, ‘will aisily find out
what kind of a house it is, any how, if that be it.’

“In a short time he saw her in the windy, and Ned then gave her a sign
to come down to him.

“‘My master,’ says he, ‘never was afeard to show his face, or tell his
name to any one--he’s a Squire Fowler,’ says he--‘a Sarjen-major in a
great militia regiment: he shot five men in his time; and there’s not a
gentleman in the country he lives in that dare say Boo to his blanket.
And now, what’s your name,’ says Ned, ‘you flattering little blackguard
you?’

“‘My name’s Betty Cunningham,’ says she.

“‘And next, what’s your mistress’s, my darling?’ says Ned.

“‘There it is,’ says she, handing him a card.

“‘Very well,’ says Ned, the thief, looking at it with a great air,
making as if he could read; ‘this will just do, a _colleen bawn_.’

“‘Do you read in your country with the wrong side of the print up?’ says
she.

“‘Up or down,’ says Ned, ‘it’s all one to us in Ireland; but, any how,
I’m left-handed, you deluder!’

“The upshot of it was, that her mistress turned out to be a great
hairess, and a great beauty; and she and Fowler got married in less than
a month. So, you see, it’s true enough that the Englishwomen are fond of
Irishmen,” says Shane; “but, Tom, with, submission for stopping you, go
on with your Wake.”

“The next play, then, is Marrying----”

“Hooh!” says Andy Morrow, “why, all their plays are about kissing and
marrying, and the like of that.”

“Surely and they are, sir,” says Tom.

“It’s all the nathur of the baste,” says Alick.

“The next is marrying. A bouchal puts an ould dark coat on him, and if
he can, borry a wig from any of the ould men in the wake-house, why,
well and good, he’s the liker his work--this is the priest; he takes,
and drives all the young men out of the house, and shuts the door upon
them, so, that they can’t get in till he lets them. He then ranges the
girls all beside one another, and, going to the first, makes her name
him she wishes to be her husband; this she does, of coorse, and the
priest lugs him in, shutting the door upon the rest. He then pronounces
this marriage sarvice, when the husband smacks her first, and then
the priest:--‘Amo amas, avourneen--in nomine gomine, betwuxt and
between--for hoc erat in votis, squeeze ‘em please ‘em--omnia vincit
amor, wid two horns to caput nap it--poluphlasboio, the lasses--‘Quid,’
says Cleopatra; ‘Shid,’ says Antony--ragibus et clatibus solemus stapere
windous--nine months--big-bottle, and a honeymoon--Alneas poque Dido’
poque Roymachree--hum not fiem viat--lag rag, merry kerry, Parawig and
breeches--hoc manifestibus omnium--Kiss your wife under the nose, then
seek repose.’ ‘Tis’ done,’ says the priest. ‘Vinculum trinculum; and
now you’re married. Amen!’ Well, these two are married, and he places
his wife upon his knee, for fraid of taking up too much room, _you
persave_; there they coort away again, and why shouldn’t they?

“The priest then goes to the next, and makes her name her husband; this
is complied with, and he is brought in after the same manner, but no one
else till they’re called: he is then married, and kisses his wife, and
the priest kisses her after him; and so they’re all married.

“But if you’d see them that don’t chance to be called at all, the figure
they cut--slipping into some dark corner, to avoid the mobbing they get
from the priest and the others. When they’re all united, they must each
sing a song--man and wife, according as they sit; or if they can’t sing,
or get some one to do it for them, they’re divorced. But the priest,
himself, usually lilts for any one that’s not able to give a verse. You
see, Mr. Morrow, there’s always in the neighborhood some droll fellow
that takes all these things upon him, and if he happened to be absent,
the wake would be quite dull.”

“Well,” said Andy Morrow, “have you any more of their sports; Tom?”

“Ay, have I; one of the best and pleasantest you heard yet.”

“I hope there’s no more coorting in it,” says Nancy; “God knows we’re
tired of their kissing and marrying.”

“Were you always so?” says Ned, across the fire to her.

“Behave yourself, Ned,” says she; “don’t you make me spake; sure you
were set down as the greatest Brine-oge that ever was known, in the
parish, for such things.”

“No, but don’t you make _me_ spake,” replies Ned.

“Here, Biddy,” said Nancy, “bring that uncle of yours another pint;
that’s what he wants most at the present time, I’m thinking.”

Biddy, accordingly, complied with this.

“Don’t make _me_ spake,” continued Ned.

“Come, Ned,” she replied, “you’ve got a fresh pint now; so drink it, and
give me no more _gosther_. (* Gossip--Idle talk.)

“_Shuid-urth!_“* says Ned, putting the pint to his head, and winking
slyly at the rest.

     * This to you, or upon you; a form of drinking healths.

“Ay, wink; in troth I’ll be up to you for that, Ned,” says Nancy; by
no means satisfied that Ned should enter into particulars. “Well, Tom,”
 says she, diverting the conversation, “go on, and give us the remainder
of your Wake.”

“Well,” says Tom, “the next play is in the milintary line. You see, Mr.
Morrow, the man that leads the sports places them all on their sates,
gets from some of the girls a white handkerchief, which he ties round
his hat, as you would tie a piece of mourning; he then walks round them
two or three times singing,

     Will you list and come with me, fair maid?
     Will’you list and come with me, fair maid?
     Will you list and come with me, fair maid,
     And folly the lad with the white cockade?

“When he sings this he takes off his hat, and puts it on the head of the
girl he likes best, who rises up and puts her arm around him, and then
they both go about in the same way, singing the same words. She then
puts the hat on some young man, who gets up and goes round with them,
singing as before. He next puts it on the girl he loves best, who, after
singing and going round in the same manner, puts it on another, and he
on his sweetheart, and so on. This is called the White Cockade. When
it’s all over, that is, when every young man has pitched upon the girl
that he wishes to be his sweetheart, they sit down, and sing songs, and
coort, as they did at the marrying.

“After this comes the _Weds or Forfeits_, or what they call
putting round the button. Every one gives in a forfeit--the boys a
neck-handkerchief or a pen-knife, and the girls a pocket-handkerchief
or something that way. The forfeit is held over them, and each of them
stoops in tarn. They are, then, compelled to command the person that
owns that forfeit to sing a song--to kiss such and such a girl--or to
carry some ould man, with his legs about their neck, three times round
the house, and this last is always great fun. Or, maybe, a young,
upsetting fellow, will be sent to kiss some toothless, slavering, ould
woman, just to punish him; or if a young woman is any way saucy, she’ll
have to kiss some ould, withered fellow, his tongue hanging with age
half way down his chin, and the tobacco water trickling from each comer
of his mouth.

“By jingo, many a time, when the friends of the corpse would be breaking
their very hearts with grief and affliction, I have seen them obligated
to laugh out, in spite of themselves, at the drollery of the priest,
with, his ould black coat and wig upon him; and when the laughing fit
would be over, to see them rocking themselves again with the sorrow--so
sad. The best man for managing such sports in this neighborhood, for
many a year, was Roger M’Cann, that lives up as you go to the mountains.
You wouldn’t begrudge to go ten miles the cowldest winter night that
ever blew, to see and hear Roger.

“There’s another play that they call the _Priest of the Parish_, which,
is remarkably pleasant. One of the boys gets a wig upon himself as
before--goes out on the flure, places the boys in a row, calls one _his
man Jack_ and says to each ‘What will you be?’ One answers ‘I’ll be
black cap;’ another--red cap;’ and so on. He then says, ‘The priest of
the parish has lost his considhering cap some says this, and some says
that, but I say my man Jack!’ Man Jack, then, to put it off himself,
says, Is it me, sir?’ ‘Yes, sir!’ ‘You lie, sir!’ ‘Who then, sir?’
‘Black cap!’ If Black cap, then, doesn’t say ‘Is it me, sir?’ before the
priest has time to call him, he must put his hand on his ham, and get a
pelt of the brogue. A body must be supple with the tongue in it.

“After this comes one they call _Horns, or the Painter_. A droll fellow
gets a lump of soot or lamp black, and after fixing a ring of the boys
and girls about him, he lays his two fore-fingers on his knees, and
says. ‘Horns, horns, cow horns!’ and then raises his finders by a jerk
up above his head; the boys and girls in the ring then do the same
thing, for the meaning of the play is this:--the man with the black’ning
always raises his fingers every time he names an animal; but if he names
any that has no horns, and that the others jerk up their fingers, then
they must get a stroke over the face with the soot. ‘Horns, horns, goat
horns!’--then he ups with his fingers like lightning; they must all do
the same, bekase a goat has horns. Horns, horns, horse horns!’--he ups
with them again, but the boys and girls ought not, bekase a horse has
not horns; however any one that raises them then, gets a slake. So that
it all comes to this:--Any one, you see that lifts his fingers when an
animal is named that has no horns--or any one that does not raise them
when a baste is mintioned that has horns, will get a mark. It’s a purty
game, and requires a keen eye and a quick hand; and, maybe, there’s
not fun in straiking the soot over the purty, warm, rosy cheeks of the
colleens, while their eyes are dancing with delight in their heads,
and their sweet breath comes over so pleasant about one’s face, the
darlings!--Och! och!

“There’s another game they call the _Silly ould Man_, that’s played this
way:--A ring of the boys and girls is made on the flure--boy and girl
about--holding one another by the hands; well and good--a young fellow
gets into the middle of the ring, as ‘the silly ould Man.’ There he
stands looking at all the girls to choose a wife, and, in the mane time,
the youngsters of the ring sing out--

     Here’s a silly ould Man that lies all alone,
     That lies all alone,
     That lies all alone;
     Here’s a silly ould man that lies all alone,
     He wants a wife and he can get none.

“When the’ boys and girls sing this, the silly ould man must choose a
wife from some of the colleens belonging to the ring. Having made choice
of her, she goes into the ring along with him, and they all sing out--

     Now, young couple, you’re married together,
     You’re married together,
     You’re married together,
     You must obey your father and mother,
     And love one another like sister and brother--
     I pray, young couple, you’ll kiss together!

“And you may be sure this part of the marriage is not missed, any way.”

“I doubt,” said Andy Morrow, “that good can’t come of so much kissing,
marrying, and coorting.”

The narrator twisted his mouth knowingly, and gave a significant groan.

“_Be dhe husth_,* hould your tongue, Misther Morrow,” said he; “Biddy
avour-neen,” he continued, addressing Biddy and Bessy, “and Bessy,
alannah, just take a friend’s advice, and never mind going to wakes; to
be sure there’s plenty of fun and divarsion at sich places, but--healths
apiece!” putting the pint to his lips--“and that’s all I say about it.”

“Right enough, Tom,” observed Shane Fadh--“sure most of the matches are
planned at them, and, I may say, most of the runaways, too--poor,
young, foolish crathurs, going off, and getting themselves married; then
bringing small, helpless families upon their hands, without money or
manes to begin the world with, and afterwards likely to eat one another
out of the face for their folly; however, there’s no putting ould
heads upon young shoulders, and I doubt, except the wakes are stopped
altogether, that it’ll be the ould case still.”

“I never remember being at a counthry wake,” said Andy Morrow. “How is
everything laid out in the house?”

“Sure it’s to you I’m telling the whole story, Mr. Morrow: these thieves
about me here know all about it as well as I do--the house, eh? Why, you
see, the two corpses were stretched beside one another, washed and laid
out. There were long deal boords with their ends upon two stools, laid
over the bodies; the boords were covered with a white sheet got at the
big house, so the corpses were’nt to be seen. On these, again, were
placed large mould candles, plates of cut tobacco, pipes, and snuff, and
so on. Sometimes corpses are waked in a bed, with their faces visible;
when that is the case, white sheets, crosses, and sometimes flowers, are
pinned up about the bed, except in the front; but when they’re undher
boord, a set of ould women sit smoking, and rocking themselves from side
to side, quite sorrowful--these are keeners--friends or relations; and
when every one connected with the dead comes in, they raise the keene,
like a song of sorrow, wailing and clapping their hands.

“The furniture is mostly removed, and sates made round the walls, where
the neighbors sit smoking, chatting, and gosthering. The best of aiting
and dhrinking that they can afford is provided; and, indeed, there is
generally open house, for it’s unknown how people injure themselves by
their kindness and waste at christenings, weddings, and wakes.

“In regard to poor Larry’s wake--we had all this, and more at it; for,
as I obsarved a while agone, the man had made himself no friends when
he was living, and the neighbors gave a loose to all kinds of divilment
when he was dead. Although there’s no man would be guilty of any
disrespect where the dead are, yet, when a person has led a good life,
and conducted themselves dacently and honestly, the young people of the
neighborhood show their respect by going through their little plays and
divarsions quieter and with less noise, lest they may give any offence;
but, as I said, whenever the person didn’t live as they ought to do,
there’s no stop to their noise and rollikin.

“When it drew near morning, every one of us took his sweetheart, and,
after convoying her home, we went to our own houses to get a little
sleep--so that was the end of poor Larry, M’Farland, and his wife, Sally
Lowry.

“Success, Tom!” said Bill M’Kinnly “take a pull of the malt now, afther
the story, your soul!--But what was the funeral like?”

“Why, then, a poor berrin it was,” said Tom; “a miserable sight, God
knows--just a few of the neighbors; for those that used to take his
thrate, and while he had a shilling in his pocket blarney him up, not
one of the skulking thieves showed their faces at it--a good warning
to foolish men that throw their money down throats that haven’t hearts
anundher them.--But boys, desarve another thrate, I think, afther my
story!” This, we need scarcely add, he was supplied with, and after
some further desultory chat, they again separated, with the intention of
reassembling at Ned’s on the following night.



THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS.


Accordingly, the next evening found them all present, when it was
determined unanimously that Pat Frayne, the hedge schoolmaster, should
furnish them with the intellectual portion of the entertainment for that
night, their object being each to tell a story in his turn.

“Very well,” said Pat, “I am quite simultaneous to the wishes of the
company; but you will plaise to observe, that there is clay which is
moist, and clay which is not moist. Now, under certain circumstances,
the clay which is not moist, ought to be made moist, and one of those
circumstances that in which any larned person becomes loquacious,
and indulges in narrative. The philosophical raison, is decided on by
Socrates, and the great Phelim M’Poteen, two of the most celebrated
liquorary characters that ever graced the sunny side of a plantation,
is, that when a man commences a narration with his clay not moist,
the said narration is found, by all lamed experience, to be a very dry
one--ehem!”

“Very right, Mr. Frayne,” replied Andy Morrow; “so in ordher to avoid
a dhry narrative, Nancy, give the masther a jug of your stoutest to wet
his whistle, and keep him in wind as he goes along.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morrow--and in requital for your kindness, I will
elucidate you such a sample of unadulterated Ciceronian eloquence,
as would not be found originating from every chimney-corner in this
Province, anyhow. I am not bright, however, at oral relation. I have
accordingly composed into narrative the following tale, which is
appellated ‘The Battle of the Factions:’--

“My grandfather, Connor O’Callaghan, though a tall, erect man, with
white flowing hair, like snow, that falls profusely about his broad
shoulders, is now in his eighty-third year: an amazing age, considhering
his former habits. His countenance is still marked with honesty and
traces of hard fighting, and his cheeks ruddy and cudgel-worn; his eyes,
though not as black as they often used to be, have lost very little of
that nate fire which characterizes the eyes of the O’Callaghans, and
for which I myself have been--but my modesty won’t allow me to allude to
that: let it be sufficient for the present to say that there never was
remembered so handsome a man in his native parish, and that I am as
like him as one Cork-red phatie is to another. Indeed, it has been often
said, that it would be hard to meet an O’Callaghan without a black eye
in his head. He has lost his fore-teeth, however, a point in which,
Unfortunately, I, though his grandson, have strong resemblance to
him. The truth is, they were knocked out of him in rows, before he had
reached his thirty-fifth year--a circumstance which the kind reader
will be pleased to receive in extenuation for the same defect in myself.
That, however, is but a trifle, which never gave either of us much
trouble.

“It pleased Providence to bring us through many hair-breadth escapes,
with our craniums uncracked; and when we considher that he, on taking a
retrogradation of his past life, can indulge in the plasing recollection
of having broken two skulls in his fighting days, and myself one,
without either of us getting a fracture in return, I think we have both
rason to be thankful. He was a powerful _bulliah battha_ * in his day
and never met a man able to fight him, except big Mucldemurray, who
stood before him the greater part of an hour and a half, in the fair of
Knockimdowny, on the day that the first great fight took place--twenty
years afther the hard, frost--between the O’Callaghans and the
O’Hallaghans. The two men fought single hands--for both factions were
willing to let them try the engagement out, that they might see what
side could boast of having the best man. They began where you enter the
north side of Knockimdowny, and fought successively up to the other end,
then back again to the spot where they commenced, and afterwards up to
the middle of the town, right opposite to the market-place, where my
grandfather, by the same a-token, lost a grinder; but he soon took
satisfaction for that, by giving Mucldemurray a tip above the eye with
the end of an oak stick, dacently loaded with lead, which made the poor
man feel very quare entirely, for the few days that he survived it.

     * Literally the stroke of a cudgel; put for cudgel-player.

“Faith, if an Irishman happened to be born in Scotland, he would find it
mighty inconvanient--afther losing two or three grinders in a row--to
manage the hard oaten bread that they use there; for which rason, God be
good to his sowl that first invented the phaties, anyhow, because a
man can masticate them without a tooth, at all at all. I’ll engage,
if larned books were consulted, it would be found out that he was
an Irishman. I wonder that neither Pastorini nor Columbkill mentions
anything about him in their prophecies concerning the church; for my own
part, I’m strongly inclinated to believe that it must have been Saint
Patrick himself; and I think that his driving all kinds of venomous
reptiles out of the kingdom is, according to the Socrastic method of
argument, an undeniable proof of it. The subject, to a dead certainty,
is not touched upon in the Brehon Code,* nor by any of the three
Psalters,** which is extremely odd, seeing that the earth never produced
a root equal to it in the multiplying force of prolification. It is,
indeed, the root of prosperity to a fighting people: and many a time my
grandfather boasts to this day, that the first bit of bread he ever ett
was a phatie.

     * This was the old code of laws peculiar to Ireland before
     the introduction of English legislation into it.

     ** There was properly only two Psalters, those of Tara and
     Cashel. The Psalters were collections of genealogical
     history, partly in verse; from which latter circumstances
     they had their name.

“In mentioning my grandfather’s fight with Mucldemurray, I happened to
name them blackguards, the O’Hallaghans: hard fortune to the same
set, for they have no more discretion in their quarrels, than so many
Egyptian mummies, African buffoons, or any other uncivilized animals.
It was one of them, he that’s married to my own fourth cousin, Biddy
O’Callaghan, that knocked two of my grinders out, for which piece of
civility I had the satisfaction of breaking a splinter or two in his
carcase, being always honestly disposed to pay my debts.

“With respect to the O’Hallaghans, they and our family, have been next
neighbors since before the Flood--and that’s as good as two hundred
years; for I believe it’s 198, any how, since my great grandfather’s
grand-uncle’s ould mare was swept out of the ‘Island,’ in the dead of
the night, about half an hour after the whole country had been ris out
of their beds by the thunder and lightning. Many a field of oats and
many a life, both of beast and Christian, was lost in it, especially of
those that lived on the bottoms about the edge of the river: and it was
true for them that said it came before something; for the next year was
one ‘of the hottest summers ever remembered in Ireland.

“These O’Hallaghans couldn’t be at peace with a saint. Before they
and our faction, began to quarrel, it’s said that the O’Donnells,
or Donnells, and they had been at it,--and a blackguard set the same
O’Donnells were, at all times--in fair and market, dance, wake, and
berrin, setting the country on fire. Whenever they met, it was heads
cracked and bones broken; till by degrees the O’Donnells fell away, one
after another, from fighting, accidents, and hanging; so that at last
there was hardly the name of one of them in the neighborhood. The
O’Hallaghans, after this, had the country under themselves--were the
cocks of the walk entirely;--who but they? A man darn’t look crooked at
them, or he was certain of getting his head in his fist. And when they’d
get drunk in a fair, it was nothing but ‘Whoo! for the O’Hallaghans!’
and leaping yards high off the pavement, brandishing their cudgels over
their heads, striking their heels against their hams, tossing up their
hats; and when all would fail, they’d strip off their coats, and trail
them up and down the street, shouting, ‘Who dare touch the coat of an
O’Hallaghan? Where’s the blackguard Donnells now?’--and so on, till
flesh and blood couldn’t stand it.

“In the course of time, the whole country was turned against them; for
no crowd could get together in which they didn’t kick up a row, nor a
bit of stray fighting couldn’t be, but they’d pick it up first; and if a
man would venture to give them a contrary answer, he was sure to get the
crame of a good welting for his pains. The very landlord was timorous
of them; for when they’d get behind in their rint, hard fortune to the
bailiff, or proctor, or steward, he could find, that would have anything
to say to them. And the more wise they; for maybe, a month would hardly
pass till all belonging to them in the world would be in a heap of
ashes: and who could say who did it? for they were as cunning as foxes.

“If one of them wanted a wife, it was nothing but find out the purtiest
and the richest farmer’s daughter in the neighborhood, and next march
into her father’s house, at the dead hour of night, tie and gag every
mortal in it, and off with her to some friend’s place in another part of
the country. Then what could be done? If the girl’s parents didn’t like
to give in, their daughter’s name was sure to be ruined; at all events,
no other man would think of marrying her, and the only plan was, to make
the best of a bad bargain; and God He knows, it was making a bad
bargain for a girl to have any matrimonial concatenation with the same
O’Hallaghans; for they always had the bad drop in them, from first to
last, from big to little--the blackguards! But wait, it’s not over with
them yet.

“The bone of contintion that got, between them and our faction was this
circumstance; their lands and ours were divided by a river that ran down
from the high mountains of Slieve Boglish, and, after a coorse of eight
or ten miles, disembogued itself, first into George Duffy’s mill-dam,
and afterwards into that superb stream, the Blackwater, that might be
well and appropriately appellated the Irish Niger. This river, which,
though small at first, occasionally inflated itself to such a gigantic
altitude, that it swept away cows, corn, and cottages, or whatever else
happened to be in the way, was the march ditch, or merin between our
farms. Perhaps it is worth while remarking, as a solution for natural
philosophers, that these inundations were much more frequent in winter
than in summer; though, when they did occur in summer, they were truly
terrific.

“God be with the days, when I and half a dozen gorsoons used to go out,
of a warm Sunday in summer, the bed of the river nothing but a line of
white meandering stones, so hot that you could hardly stand upon, them,
with a small obscure thread of water creeping invisibly among them,
hiding itself, as it were, from the scorching sun; except here and
there, that you might find a small crystal pool where the streams had
accumulated. Our plan was to bring a pocketful of roche lime with us,
and put it into the pool, when all the fish used to rise on the instant
to the surface, gasping with open mouth for fresh air, and we had only
to lift them out of the water; a nate plan which, perhaps, might be
adopted successfully, on a more extensive scale, by the Irish fisheries.
Indeed, I almost regret that I did not remain in that station of life,
for I was much happier then than ever I was since I began to study and
practice larning. But this is vagating from the subject.

“Well, then, I have said that them O’Hallaghans lived beside us, and
that this stream divided our lands. About half a quarter--i. e.,
to accommodate myself to the vulgar phraseology--or, to speak more
scientifically, one-eighth of a mile from our house was as purty a hazel
glen as you’d wish to see, near half a mile long--its developments and
proportions were truly classical. In the bottom of this glen was a small
green island, about twelve yards, diametrically, of Irish admeasurement,
that is to say, be the same more or less; at all events, it lay in the
way of the river, which, however, ran towards the O’Hallaghan side, and,
consequently, the island was our property.

“Now, you’ll observe, that this river had been, for ages, the merin
between the two farms, for they both belonged to separate landlords,
and so long as it kept the O’Hallighan side of the little peninsula in
question there could be no dispute about it, for all was clear. One wet
winter, however, it seemed to change its mind upon the subject; for it
wrought and wore away a passage for itself on our side of the island,
and by that means took part, as it were, with the O’Hallighans leaving
the territory which had been our property for centhries, in their
possession. This was a vexatious change to us, and, indeed, eventually
produced very feudal consequences. No sooner had the stream changed
sides, than the O’Hallaghans claimed the island as theirs, according
to their tenement; and we, having had it for such length of time in our
possession, could not break ourselves of the habitude of occupying it.
They incarcerated our cattle, and we incarcerated theirs. They summoned
us to their landlord, who was a magistrate; and we summoned them to
ours, who was another. The verdicts were north and south. Their landlord
gave it in favor of them, and ours in favor of us. The one said he had
law on his side; the other, that he had proscription and possession,
length of time and usage.

“The two squires then fought a challenge upon the head of it, and what
was more singular, upon the disputed spot itself; the one standing on
their side, the other on ours; for it was just twelve paces every way.
Their friend was a small, light man, with legs like drumsticks; the
other was a large, able-bodied gentleman, with a red face and hooked
nose. They exchanged two shots, only one of which--the second--took
effect. It pastured upon their landlord’s spindle leg, on which he held
it out, exclaiming, that while he lived he would never fight another
challenge with his antagonist, ‘because,’ said he, holding out his own
spindle shank, ‘the man who could hit that could hit anything.’

[Illustration: PAGE 725-- The man who could hit that could hit anything]

“We then were advised, by an attorney, to go to law with them; and they
were advised by another attorney to go to law with us: accordingly,
we did so, and in the course of eight or nine years it might have been
decided, but just at the legal term approximated in which the decision
was to be announced, the river divided itself with mathematical
exactitude on each side of the island. This altered the state and law of
the question in toto; but, in the meantime, both we and the O’Hallaghans
were nearly fractured by the expenses. Now during the lawsuit we usually
houghed and mutilated each other’s cattle, according as they trespassed
the premises. This brought on the usual concomitants of various battles,
fought and won by both sides, and occasioned the lawsuit to be dropped;
for we found it a mighty, inconvanient matter to fight it out both ways;
by the same a-token that I think it a proof of stultity to go to law
at all at all, as long as a person is able to take it into his own
management. For the only incongruity in the matter is this: that, in
the one case, a set of lawyers have the law in their hands, and, in the
other, that you have it in your own; that’s the only difference, and
‘tis easy knowing where the advantage lies.

“We, however, paid the most of the expenses, and would have _ped_ them
all with the greatest integrity, were it not that our attorney, when
about to issue an execution against our property, happened somehow to be
shot, one evening, as he returned home from a dinner which was given
by him that was attorney for the O’Hallaghans. Many a boast the
O’Hallaghan’s made, before the quarrelling between us and them
commenced, that they’d sweep the streets with the fighting O’Callaghans,
which was an epithet that was occasionally applied to our family. We
differed, however, materially from them; for we were honorable, never
starting out in dozens on a single man or two, and beating him into
insignificance. A couple, or maybe, when irritated, three, were the most
we ever set at a single enemy, and if we left him lying in a state
of imperception, it was the most we ever did, except in a regular
confliction, when a man is justified in saving his own skull by breaking
one of an opposite faction. For the truth of the business is, that he
who breaks the skull of him who endeavors to break his own is safest;
and, surely, when a man is driven to such an alternative, the choice is
unhesitating.

“O’Hallaghans’ attorney, however, had better luck; they were, it is
true, rather in the retrograde with him touching the law charges, and,
of coorse, it was only candid in him to look for his own. One morning,
he found that two of his horses had been executed by some incendiary
unknown, in the coorse of the night; and, on going to look at them,
he found a taste of a notice posted on the inside of the stable-door,
giving him intelligence that if he did not find a _horpus corpus_*
whereby to transfer his body out of the country, he would experience
a fate parallel to that of his brother lawyer or the horses. And,
undoubtedly, if honest people never perpetrated worse than banishing
such varmin, along with proctors, and drivers of all kinds, out of a
civilized country, they would not be so very culpable or atrocious.

     * Habeas corpus; the above is the popular pronunciation.

“After this, the lawyer went to reside in Dublin; and the only bodily
injury he received was the death of a land-agent and a bailiff, who
lost their lives faithfully in driving for rent. They died, however,
successfully; the bailiff having been provided for nearly a year
before the agent was sent to give an account of his stewardship--as the
Authorized Version has it.

“The occasion on which the first re-encounter between us and the
O’Hallaghans took place, was a peaceable one. Several of our respective
friends undertook to produce a friendly and oblivious potation between
us--it was at a berrin belonging to a corpse who was related to us both;
and, certainly, in the beginning we were all as thick as whigged milk.
But there is no use now in dwelling too long upon that circumstance;
let it be sufficient to assert that the accommodation was effectuated by
fists and cudgels, on both sides--the first man that struck a blow being
one of the friends that wished to bring about the tranquillity. From
that out the play commenced, and God he knows when it may end; for no
dacent faction could give in to another faction without losing their
character, and being kicked, and cuffed, and kilt, every week in the
year.

“It is the great battle, however, which I am after going to describe:
that in which we and the O’Hallaghans had contrived, one way or other,
to have the parish divided--one-half for them, and the other for us;
and, upon my credibility, it is no exaggeration to declare that the
whole parish, though ten miles by six, assembled itself in the town of
Knockimdowny, upon this interesting occasion. In thruth, Ireland ought
to be a land of mathemathitians; for I am sure her population is well
trained, at all events, in the two sciences of multiplication and
division. Before I adventure, however, upon the narration, I must wax
pathetic a little, and then proceed with the main body of the story.

“Poor Rose O’Hallaghan!--or, as she was designated--_Rose Galh_, or
_Fair Rose_, and sometimes simply, Rose Hallaghan, because the detention
of the big O often produces an afflatus in the pronunciation, that
is sometimes mighty inconvenient to such as do not understand
oratory--besides, that the Irish are rather fond of sending the liquids
in a gutthural direction--Poor Rose! that faction fight, was a black day
to her, the sweet innocent--when it was well known that there wasn’t a
man, woman, or child, on either side that wouldn’t lay their hands under
her feet. However, in order to _insense_ the reader better into her
character, I will commence a small sub-narration, which will afterwards
emerge into the parent stream of the story.

“The chapel of Knockimdowny is a slated house, without any ornament,
except a set of wooden cuts, painted red and blue, that are placed
_seriatum_ around the square of the building in the internal side.
Fourteen* of these suspind at equal distances on the walls, each set in
a painted frame; these constitute a certain species of country devotion.
It is usual, on Sundays, for such of the congregation as are most
inclined to piety, to genuflect at the first of these pictures, and
commence a certain number of prayers to it after the repetition of
which, they travel on their knees along the bare earth to the second,
where they repate another prayer peculiar to that, and so on, till
they finish the grand _tower_ of the interior. Such, however as are
not especially addictated to this kind, of locomotive prayer, collect
together in various knots through the chapel, and amuse themselves by
auditing or narrating anecdotes, discussing policy, or detraction;
and in case it be summer, and the day of a fine texture, they scatter
themselves into little crowds on the chapel-green, or lie at their
length upon the grass in listless groups, giving way to chat and
laughter.

     * These are called the “Fourteen Stations of the Cross.”

“In this mode, laired on the sunny side of the ditches and hedges, or
collected in rings round that respectable character, the Academician of
the village, or some other well-known Senachie, or story-teller, they
amuse themselves till the priest’s arrival. Perhaps, too, some walking
geographer of a pilgrim may happen to be present; and if there be, he
is sure to draw a crowd about him, in spite of all the efforts of the
learned Academician to the contrary. It is no unusual thing to see such
a vagrant, in all the vanity of conscious sanctimony, standing in
the middle of the attentive peasants, like the nave and felloes
of a cart-wheel--if I may be permitted the loan of an apt
similitude--repeating some piece of unfathomable and labyrinthine
devotion, or perhaps warbling, from Stentorian lungs, some _melodia
sacra_, in an untranslatable tongue; or, it may be, exhibiting
the mysterious power of an amber bade fastened as a Decade to his
_paudareens_* lifting a chaff or light bit of straw by the force of its
attraction. This is an exploit which causes many an eye to turn from the
bades to his own bearded face, with a hope, as it were, of being able to
catch a glimpse of the lurking sanctimony by which the knave hoaxes them
in the miraculous.

     * Pilgrims and other impostors pass these things upon the
     people as miracles upon a small scale.

“The amusements of the females are also nearly such as I have drafted
out. Nosegays of the darlings might be seen sated on green banks, or
sauntering about with a sly intention of coming in compact with their
sweethearts, or, like bachelors’ buttons in smiling rows, criticising
the young men as they pass. Others of them might be seen screened behind
a hedge, with their backs to the spectators taking the papers off their
curls before small bit of looking-glass placed against the ditch; or
perhaps putting on their shoes and stockings--which phrase can be used
only by the authority of the figure _heusteron proteron_--inasmuch as if
they put on the shoes first, you persave, it would be a scientific job
to get on the stockings after; but it’s an idiomatioal expression, and
therefore justifiable. However, it’s a general custom in the country,
which I dare to say has not yet spread into large cities, for the young
women to walk bare-footed to the chapel, or within a short distance
of it, that they may exhibit their bleached thread stockings and
well-greased slippers to the best advantage, not pretermitting a
well-turned ankle and neat leg, which, I may fearlessly assert, my fair
country-women can show against any other nation, living or dead.

“One sunny Sabbath, the congregation of Knockimdowny were thus
assimilated, amusing themselves in the manner I have just outlined; a
series of country girls sat on a little green mount, called the Rabbit
Bank, from the circumstance of its having been formerly an open burrow,
though of late years it has been closed. It was near twelve o’clock,
the hour at which Father Luke O’Shaughran was generally seen topping the
rise of the hill at Larry Mulligan’s public-house, jogging on his bay
hack at something between a walk and a trot--that is to say, his horse
moved his fore and hind legs on the off side at one motion, and the
fore and hind legs of the near side in another, going at a kind of dog’s
trot, like the pace of an idiot with sore feet in a shower--a pace,
indeed, to which the animal had been set for the last sixteen years, but
beyond which, no force, or entreaty, or science, or power, either divine
or human, of his Reverence could drive him. As yet, however, he had not
become apparent; and the girls already mentioned were discussing the
pretensions which several of their acquaintances had to dress or beauty.

“‘Peggy,’ said Katy Carroll to her companion, Peggy Donohue, ‘were you
out* last Sunday?’

     * Out.--This expression in remote parts of the country is
     understood to mean being at mass.

“‘No, in troth, Katty, I was disappointed in getting my shoes from Paddy
Mellon, though I left him the measure for my foot three weeks agone,
and gave him a thousand warnings to make them duck-nebs; but, instead
of that,’ said she, holding out a very purty foot, ‘he has made them as
sharp in the toe as a pick-axe, and a full mile too short for me. But
why do ye ax was I out, Katty?’

     * Paddy Mellon--a short, thick-set man, with gray hair,
     which he always kept cropped close--the most famous
     shoemaker in the parish: in fact the Drummond of a large
     district. No shoes considered worth wearing if he did not
     make them. But, having admitted this, I am bound in common
     justice and honesty to say that so big a liar never put an
     awl into leather. No language could describe his iniquity in
     this respect. I myself am a living-witness of this. Many a
     trudge has the villain taken out of me in my boyhood, and as
     sure as I went on the appointed day--which was always
     Saturday--so surely did he swear that they would be ready
     for me on that day week. He was, as a tradesman, the most
     multifarious and barefaced liar I ever met; and what was the
     most rascally trait about him, was the faculty he possessed
     of making you believe the lie as readily after the fifteenth
     repetition of it, as when it was uttered fresh from his
     lips.

“‘Oh, nothing,’ responded Katty, ‘only that you missed a sight, anyway.’

“‘What was it Kitty, ahagur?’ asked her companion with mighty great
curiosity.

“‘Why, nothing less, indeed, nor Rose Cullenan decked out in a white
muslin gown, and a black sprush bonnet, tied under her chin wid a
silk ribbon, no less; but what killed us out and out was--you wouldn’t
guess?’

“‘Arrah, how could I guess, woman alive? A silk handkerchy, maybe; for I
wouldn’t doubt the same Rose but she would be setting herself up for the
likes of such a thing.’

“‘It’s herself that had, as red as scarlet, about her neck; but that’s
not it.’

“‘Arrah, Katty, tell it to us at wanst; out with it, ahagur; sure
there’s no treason in it, anyhow.’

“‘Why, thin, nothing less nor a crass-bar red-and-white
pocket-handkerchy, to wipe her purty complexion wid!’

“To this Peggy replied by a loud laugh, in which it was difficult to say
whether there was more of satire than astonishment.

“‘A pocket-handkerchy!’ she exclaimed; ‘musha, are we alive afther
that, at all at all! Why, that bates Molly M’Cullagh and her red mantle
entirely. I’m sure, but it’s well come up for the likes of her, a poor,
imperint crathur, that sprung from nothing, to give herself such airs.’

“‘Molly M’Cullagh, indeed,’ said Katty, ‘why, they oughtn’t to be
mintioned in the one day, woman. Molly’s come of a dacent ould stock,
and kind mother for her to keep herself in genteel ordher at all times;
she sees nothing else, and can afford it, not all as one as the other
flipe* that would go to the world’s end for a bit of dress.’

     * Flipe--One who is “flippant”--of which word it is the
     substantive, and a good one too.

“’ Sure she thinks she’s a beauty, too, if you plase,’ said Peggy,
tossing her head with an air of disdain; ‘but tell us, Katty, how did
the muslin sit upon her at all, the upsetting crathur?’

“‘Why, for all the world like a shift on a Maypowl, or a stocking on a
body’s nose: only nothing killed us outright but the pocket-handkerchy!’

“‘Hut!’ said the other, ‘what could we expect from a proud piece like
her, that brings a Manwill* to mass every Sunday, purtending she can
read in it, and Jem Finigan saw the wrong side of the book towards her,
the Sunday of the Purcession!’ **

     * Manuel--a Catholic Prayer-book.

     ** The priest described in “Ned M’Keown” having been
     educated on the Continent, was one of the first to introduce
     the Procession of the Host in that part of the country. The
     Consecrated Host, shrined in a silver vessel formed like a
     chalice, was borne by a priest under a silken canopy; and to
     this the other clergymen present offered up incense from a
     censer, whilst they circumambulated the chapel inside and
     out, if the day was fine.

“At this hit they both formed another risible junction, quite as
sarcastic as the former--in the midst of which the innocent object of
their censure, dressed in all her obnoxious finery, came up and joined
them. She was scarcely sated--I blush to the very point of my pen during
the manuscription--when the confabulation assumed a character directly
antipodial to that which marked the precedent dialogue.

“‘My gracious, Rose, but that’s a purty thing you have got in your
gown!--where did you buy it?’

“‘Och, thin, not a one of myself likes it over much. I’m sorry I didn’t
buy a gingham: I could have got a beautiful patthern, all out, for two
shillings less; but they don’t wash so well as this. I bought it in
Paddy McGartland’s, Peggy.’

“‘Troth, it’s nothing else but a great beauty; I didn’t see anything on
you this long time that becomes you so well, and I’ve remarked that you
always look best in white.’

“‘Who made it, Rose?’ inquired Katty; ‘for it sits illegant’

“‘Indeed,’ replied Rose, ‘for the differ of the price, I thought it
better to bring it to Peggy Boyle, and be sartin of not having it
spoiled. Nelly Keenan made the last; and although there was a full
breadth more in it nor this, bad cess to the one of her but spoiled it
on me; it was ever so much too short in the body, and too tight in the
sleeves, and then I had no step at all at all.’

“‘The sprush bonnet is exactly the fit for the gown,’ observed Katty;
‘the black and the white’s jist the cut--how many yards had you, Rose?’

“‘Jist ten and a half; but the half-yard was for the tucks.’

“‘Ay, faix! and brave full tucks she left in it; ten would do me, Rose?’

“‘Ten!--no, nor ten and a half; you’re a size bigger nor me at the
laste, Peggy; but you’d be asy fitted, you’re so well made.’

“‘Rose, _darling_,’ said Peggy, ‘that’s a great beauty, and shows off
your complexion all to pieces; you have no notion how well you look in
it and the sprush.’

“In a few minutes after this her namesake, Rose Galh O’Hallaghan, came
towards the chapel, in society with her father, mother, and her two
sisters. The eldest, Mary, was about twenty-one; Rose, who was the
second, about nineteen, or scarcely that; and Nancy, the junior of the
three, about twice seven.

“‘There’s the O’Hallaghans,’ says Rose.

“‘Ay,’ replied Katty; ‘you may talk of beauty, now; did you ever lay
your two eyes on the likes of Rose for downright--musha, if myself knows
what to call it--but, anyhow, she’s the lovely crathur to look at.’

“Kind reader, without a single disrespectful insinuation against any
portion of the fair sex, you may judge what Rose O’Hallaghan must have
been, when even these three were necessitated to praise her in her
absence!

“‘I’ll warrant,’ observed Katty, ‘we’ll soon be after seeing John
O’Callaghan’--(he was my own cousin)--‘sthrolling afther them, at his
ase.’

“‘Why,’ asked Rose, ‘what makes you say that?’

“‘Bekase,’ replied the other, I’ve a rason for it.’

“‘Sure John O’Callaghan wouldn’t be thinking of her,’ observed Rose,
‘and their families would see other shot: their factions would never
have a crass marriage, anyhow.’

“‘Well,’ said Peggy, ‘it’s the thousand pities that the same two
couldn’t go together; for fair and handsome as Rose is, you’ll not deny
but John comes up to her; but I faix! sure enough it’s they that’s the
proud people on both sides, and dangerous to make or meddle with, not
saying that ever there was the likes of the same two for dacency and
peaceableness among either of the factions.’

“‘Didn’t I tell yez?’ cried Katty; ‘look at him now staling afther her;
and it’ll be the same thing going home again; and, if Rose is not much
belied, it’s not a bit displasing to her.’

“‘Between ourselves, observed Peggy, it would be no wondher the darling
young crathur would fall in love with him; for you might thravel the
country afore you’d meet with his fellow for face and figure.’

“‘There’s Father Ned,’ remarked Katty; ‘we had betther get into the
chapel before the _scroodgin_ comes an, or your bonnet and gown, Rose,
won’t be the betther for it.’

“They now proceeded to the chapel, and those who had been amusing
themselves after the same mode, followed their exemplar. In a short time
the hedges and ditches adjoining the chapel were quite in solitude, with
the exception of a few persons from the extreme parts of the parish, who
might be seen running with all possible velocity ‘to overtake mass,’ as
the phrase on that point expresses itself.

“The chapel of Knockimdowny was situated at the foot of a range of lofty
mountains; a by-road went past the very door, which had under subjection
a beautiful extent of cultivated country, diversificated by hill and
dale, or rather by hill and hollow; for, as far as my own geographical
knowledge goes, I have uniformly found them inseparable. It was also
ornamented with the waving verdure of rich corn-fields and meadows, not
pretermitting phatie-fields in full blossom--a part of rural landscape
which, to my utter astonishment, has escaped the pen of poet, and the
brush of painter; although I will risk my reputation as a man of pure
and categorical taste, if a finer ingredient in the composition of a
landscape could be found than a field of Cork-fed phaties or Moroky
_blacks_ in full bloom, allowing a man to judge by the pleasure they
confer upon the eye, and therefore to the heart. About a mile up from
the chapel, towards the south, a mountain-stream, not the one already
intimated--over which there was no bridge, crossed the road. But in lieu
of a bridge, there was a long double plank laid over it, from bank to
bank; and as the river was broad, and not sufficiently incarcerated
within its channel, the neighbors were necessitated to throw these
planks across the narrowest part they could find in the contiguity of
the road. This part was consequently the deepest, and, in floods, the
most dangerous; for the banks were elevated as far as they went, and
quite tortuositous.

“Shortly after the priest had entered the chapel, it was observed
that the hemisphere became, of a sudden, unusually obscure, though the
preceding part of the day had not only been uncloudously bright, but hot
in a most especial manner. The obscurity, however, increased rapidly,
accompanied by that gloomy stillness which always takes precedence of a
storm, and fills the mind with vague and interminable terror. But this
ominous silence was not long unfractured; for soon after the first
appearance of the gloom, a flash of lightning quivered through the
chapel, followed by an extragavantly loud clap of thunder, which shook
the very glass in the windows, and filled the congregation to the brim
with terror. Their dismay, however, would have been infinitely greater,
only for the presence of his Reverence, and the confidence which might
be traced to the solemn occasion on which they were assimilated.

“From this moment the storm became progressive in dreadful magnitude,
and the thunder, in concomitance with the most vivid flashes of
lightning, pealed through the sky, with an awful grandeur and
magnificence, that were exalted and even rendered more sublime by
the still solemnity of religious worship. Every heart now prayed
fervently--every spirit shrunk into a deep sense of its own guilt and
helplessness--and every conscience was terror-stricken, as the voice of
an angry God thundered out of his temple of storms though the heavens;
for truly, as the Authorized Version has it, ‘darkness was under his
feet, and his pavilion round about was dark waters, and thick clouds of
the skies, because he was wroth.’

“The rain now condescended in even-down torrents, and thunder succeeded
thunder in deep and terrific peals, whilst the roar of the gigantic
echoes that deepened and reverberated among the glens and hollows,
‘laughing in their mountain mirth,’--hard fortune to me, but they made
the flesh creep on my bones!

“This lasted for an hour, when the thunder slackened: but the rain still
continued. As soon as mass was over, and the storm had elapsed, except
an odd peal which might be heard rolling at a distance behind the hills,
the people began gradually to repover their spirits, and enter into
confabulation; but to venture out was still impracticable. For
about another hour it rained incessantly, after which it ceased; the
hemisphere became lighter--and the sun shone out once more upon the
countenance of nature with its former brightness. The congregation then
decanted itself out of the chapel--the spirits of the people dancing
with that remarkable buoyancy or juvenility which is felt after a
thunderstorm, when the air is calm, soople, and balmy--and all nature
garmented with glittering verdure and light. The crowd next began to
commingle on their way home, and to make the usual observations upon the
extraordinary storm which had just passed, and the probable effect it
would produce on the fruit and agriculture of the neighborhood.

“When the three young women, whom we have already introduced to our
respectable readers, had evacuated the chapel, they determined to
substantiate a certitude, as far as their observation could reach, as
to the truth of what Kitty Carroll had hinted at, in reference to John
O’Callaghan’s attachment to Rose Galh O’Hallaghan, and her taciturn
approval of it. For this purpose they kept their eye upon John, who
certainly seemed in no especial hurry home, but lingered upon the chapel
green in a very careless method. Rose Galh, however, soon made her
appearance, and, after going up the chapel-road a short space, John
slyly walked at some distance behind, without seeming to pay her any
particular notice, whilst a person up to the secret might observe Rose’s
bright eye sometimes peeping back to see if he was after her. In this
manner they proceeded until they came to the river, which, to their
great alarm, was almost fluctuating over its highest banks.

“A crowd was now assembled, consulting as to the safest method of
crossing the planks, under which the red boiling current ran, with less
violence, it is true, but much deeper than in any other part of the
stream. The final decision was, that the very young and the old, and
such as were feeble, should proceed by a circuit of some miles to a
bridge that crossed it, and that the young men should place themselves
on their knees along the planks, their hands locked in each other, thus
forming a support on one side, upon which such as had courage to venture
across might lean, in case of accident or megrim. Indeed, anybody that
had able nerves might have crossed the planks without this precaution,
had they been dry; but, in consequence of the rain, and the frequent
attrition of feet, they were quite slippery; and, besides, the flood
rolled terrifically two or three yards below them, which might be apt to
beget a megrim that would not be felt if there was no flood.

“When this expedient had been hit upon, several young men volunteered
themselves to put it in practice; and in a short time a considerable
number of both sexuals crossed over, without the occurrence of any
unpleasant accident. Paddy O’Hallaghan and his family had been stationed
for some time on the bank, watching the success of the plan; and as
it appeared not to be attended with any particular danger, they also
determined to make the attempt. About a perch below the planks stood
John O’Callaghan, watching the progress of those who were crossing
them, but taking no part in what was going forward. The river, under the
planks, and for some perches above and below them, might be about ten
feet deep; but to those who could swim, it was less perilous, should any
accident befall them, than those parts where the current was more rapid,
but shallower. The water here boiled, and bubbled, and whirled about;
but it was slow, and its yellow surface unbroken by rocks or fords.

“The first of the O’Hallaghans that ventured over it was the youngest,
who, being captured by the hand, was encouraged by many cheerful
expressions from the young men who were clinging to the planks. She got
safe over, however; and when she came to the end, one who was stationed
on the bank gave her a joyous pull, that translated her several yards
upon terra firma.

“‘Well, Nancy,’ he observed, ‘you’re safe, anyhow; and if I don’t dance
at your wedding for this, I’ll never say you’re dacent.’

“To this Nancy gave a jocular promise, and he resumed his station, that
he might be ready to render similar assistance to her next sister. Rose
Galh then went to the edge of the plank several times, but her courage
as often refused to be forthcoming. During her hesitation, John
O’Callaghan stooped down, and privately untied his shoes, then
unbuttoned his waistcoat, and very gently, being unwilling to
excite notice, slipped the knot of his cravat. At long last, by the
encouragement of those who were on the plank, Rose attempted the
passage, and had advanced as far as the middle of it, when a fit of
dizziness and alarm seized her with such violence, that she lost all
consciousness--a circumstance of which those who handed her along were
ignorant. The consequence, as might be expected, was dreadful; for as
one of the young men was receiving her hand, that he might pass her to
the next, she lost her momentum, and was instantaneously precipitated
into the boiling current.

“The wild and fearful cry of horror that succeeded this cannot be laid
on paper. The eldest sister fell into strong convulsions, and several
of the other females fainted on the spot. The mother did not faint;
but, like Lot’s wife, she seemed to be translated into stone: her hands
became clenched convulsively, her teeth locked, her nostrils dilated,
and her eyes shot half way out of her head. There she stood, looking
upon her daughter struggling in the flood, with a fixed gaze or wild and
impotent frenzy, that, for fearful ness, beat the thunder-storm all to
nothing. The father rushed to the edge of the river, oblivious of his
incapability to swim, determined to save her or lose his own life, which
latter would have been a dead certainty, had he ventured; but he was
prevented by the crowd, who pointed out to him the madness of such a
project.

“‘For God’s sake, Paddy, don’t attimpt it,’ they exclaimed, ‘except
you wish to lose your own life, without being able to save hers: no man
could swim in that flood, and it upwards of ten feet deep.’

“Their arguments, however, were lost upon him; for, in fact, he was
insensible to everything but his child’s preservation. He, therefore,
only answered their remonstrances by attempting to make another plunge
into the river.

“‘Let me alone, will yez,’ said he--‘let me alone! I’ll either save my
child, Rose, or die along with her! How could I live after her? Merciful
God, any of them but her! Oh! Rose, darling,’ he exclaimed, ‘the
favorite of my heart--will no one save you?’ All this passed in less
than a minute.

“‘Just as these words were uttered, a plunge was heard a few yards below
the bridge, and a man appeared in the flood, making his way with rapid
strokes to the drowning girl. Another cry now arose from the spectators:
‘It’s John O’Callaghan,’ they shouted--‘it’s John O’Callaghan, and
they’ll both be lost.’ ‘No,’ exclaimed others; ‘if it’s in the power of
man to save her, he will!’ ‘O, blessed father, she’s lost!’ now burst
from all present; for, after having struggled and been kept floating for
some time by her garments, she at length sunk, apparently exhausted and
senseless, and the thief of a flood flowed over her, as if she had not
been under it’s surface.

“When O’Callaghan saw that she went down, he raised himself up in the
water, and cast his eye towards that part of the bank opposite which she
disappeared, evidently, as it proved, that he might have a mark to guide
him in fixing on the proper spot where to plunge after her. When he came
to the place, he raised himself again in the stream, and, calculating
that she must by this time have been borne some distance from the spot
where she sank, he gave a stroke or two down the river, and disappeared
after her. This was followed by another cry of horror and despair,
for somehow, the idea of desolation which marks, at all times, a deep,
over-swollen torrent, heightened by the bleak mountain scenery around
them, and the dark, angry voracity of the river where they had sunk,
might have impressed the spectators with utter hopelessness as to the
fate of those now engulfed in its vortex. This, however, I leave to
those who are deeper read in philosophy than I am.

“An awful silence succeeded the last shrill exclamation, broken only by
the hoarse rushing of the waters, whose wild, continuous roar, booming
hollowly and dismally in the ear, might be heard at a great distance
over all the country. But a new sensation soon invaded the multitude;
for after the lapse of about half a minute, John O’Callaghan emerged
from the flood, bearing in his sinister hand the body of his own Rose
Galh--for it’s he that loved her tenderly. A peal of joy congratulated
them from the assembled crowd; hundreds of directions were given to him
how to act to the best advantage. Two young men in especial, who were
both dying about the lovely creature that he held, were quite anxious to
give advice.

“‘Bring her to the other side, John, ma bouchal; it’s the safest,’ said
Larry Carty.

“‘Will you let him alone, Carty?’ said Simon Tracy, who was the other,
‘you’ll only put him in a perplexity.’

“But Carty should order in spite of every thing. He kept bawling out,
however, so loud, that John raised his eye to see what he meant, and was
near losing hold of Rose. This was too much for Tracy, who ups with his
fist, and downs him--so they both at it; for no one there could take
themselves off those that were in danger, to interfere between them.
But at all events, no earthly thing can happen among Irishmen without a
fight.

“The father, during this, stood breathless, his hands clasped, and
his eyes turned to heaven, praying in anguish for the delivery of his
darling. The mother’s look was still wild and fixed, her eyes glazed,
and her muscles hard and stiff; evidently she was insensible to all that
was going forward; while large drops of paralytic agony hung upon her
cold brow. Neither of the sisters had yet recovered, nor could those
who supported them turn their eyes from the more imminent danger, to pay
them any particular attention. Many, also, of the other females, whose
feelings were too much wound up when the accident occurred, now fainted,
when they saw she was likely to be rescued; but most of them were
weeping with delight and gratitude.

“When John brought her to the surface, he paused for a moment to recover
breath and collectedness; he then caught her by the left arm, near
the shoulder, and cut, in a slanting direction, down the stream, to a
watering place, where a slope had been formed in the bank. But he was
already too far down to be able to work across the stream to this point;
for it was here much stronger and more rapid than under the planks.
Instead, therefore, of reaching the slope, he found himself in spite
of every effort to the contrary, about a perch below it; and, except he
could gain this point, against the strong rush of the flood, there was
very little hope of being able to save either her or himself--for he was
now much exhausted.

“Hitherto, therefore, all was still doubtful, whilst strength was fast
failing him. In this trying and almost hopeless situation, with an
admirable presence of mind, he adopted the only expedient which could
possibly enable him to reach the bank. On finding himself receding down,
instead of advancing up the current, he approached the bank, which was
here very deep and perpendicular; he then sank his fingers into and
pressed his right foot against the firm blue clay with which it was
stratified, and by this means advanced, bit by bit, up the stream,
having no other force by which to propel himself against it. After this
mode did he breast the current with all his strength--which must have
been prodigious, or he never could have borne it out--until he reached
the slope, and got from the influence of the tide, into dead water. On
arriving here, his hand was caught by one of the young men present, who
stood up to the neck, waiting his approach. A second man stood behind
him, holding his other hand, a link being thus formed, that reached out
to the firm bank; and a good pull now brought them both to the edge
of the river. On finding bottom, John took his Colleen Galh in his own
arms, carried her out, and pressing his lips to hers, laid her in
the bosom of her father; then, after taking another kiss of the young
drowned flower, he burst into tears, and fell powerless beside her. The
truth is, the spirit that had kept him firm was now exhausted; both his
legs and arms having become nerveless by the exertion.

“Hitherto her father took no notice of John, for how could he? seeing
that he was entirely wrapped up in his daughter; and the question was,
though rescued from the flood, if life was in her. The sisters were by
this time recovered, and weeping over her, along with the father--and,
indeed, with all present; but the mother could not be made to comprehend
what they were about at all at all. The country people used every means
with which they were intimate to recover Rose; she was brought instantly
to a farmer’s house beside the spot, put into a warm bed, covered over
with hot salt, wrapped in half-scorched blankets, and made subject to
every other mode of treatment that could possibly revoke the functions
of life. John had now got a dacent draught of whiskey, which revived
him. He stood over her, when he could be admitted, watching for the
symptomatics of her revival; all, however, was vain. He now determined
to try another course: by-and-by he stooped, put his mouth to her mouth,
and, drawing in his breath, respired with all his force from the bottom
of his very heart into hers; this he did several times rapidly--faith,
a tender and agreeable operation, any how. But mark the consequence:
in less than a minute her white bosom heaved--her breath returned--her
pulse began to play--she opened her eyes, and felt his tears of love
raining warmly on her pale cheek!

“For years before this no two of these opposite factions had spoken, nor
up to this minute had John and they, even upon this occasion, exchanged
a monosyllable. The father now looked at him--the tears stood afresh in
his eyes; he came forward--stretched out his hand--it was received; and
the next moment he fell upon John’s neck, and cried like an infant.

“When Rose recovered, she seemed as if striving to recordate what had
happened; and, after two or three minutes, inquired from her sister, in
a weak but sweet voice, ‘Who saved me?’

“‘’Twas John O’Callaghan, Rose darling,’ replied the sister, in tears,
‘that ventured his own life into the boiling flood, to save yours--and
did save it, jewel!’

“Rose’s eye glanced at John--and I only wish, as I am a bachelor not
further than my forty-fourth, that I may ever have the happiness to get
such a glance from two blue eyes, as she gave him that moment--a faint
smile played about her mouth, and a slight blush lit up her fair cheek,
like the evening sunbeams on the virgin snow, as the poets have said for
the five-hundredth time, to my own personal knowledge. She then extended
her hand, which John, you may be sure, was no way backward in receiving,
and the tears of love and gratitude ran silently down her cheeks.

“It is not necessary to detail the circumstances of this day farther;
let it be sufficient to say, that a reconciliation took place between
those two branches of the O’Hallaghan and O’Callaghan families, in
consequence of John’s heroism and Rose’s soft persuasion, and that there
was, also, every perspective of the two factions being penultimately
amalgamated. For nearly a century they had been pell-mell at it,
whenever and wherever they could meet. Their forefathers, who had been
engaged in the lawsuit about the island which I have mentioned, wore
dead and petrified in their graves; and the little peninsula in the glen
was gradationally worn away by the river, till nothing remained but
a desert, upon a small scale, of sand and gravel. Even the ruddy,
able-bodied squire, with the longitudinal nose, projecting out of his
face like a broken arch, and the small, fiery magistrate--both of whom
had fought the duel, for the purpose of setting forth a good example,
and bringing the dispute to a peaceable conclusion--were also dead. The
very memory of the original contention! had been lost (except that it
was preserved along with the cranium of my grandfather), or became so
indistinct that the parties fastened themselves on some more modern
provocation, which they kept in view until another fresh motive would
start up, and so on. I know not, however, whether it was fair to expect
them to give up at once the agreeable recreation of fighting. It’s not
easy to abolish old customs, particularly diversions; and every one
knows that this is our national amusement.

“There were, it is true, many among both, factions who saw the matter in
this reasonable light, and who wished rather, if it were to cease, that
it should die away by degrees, from the battle of the whole parish,
equally divided between the factions, to the subordinate row between
certain members of them--from that to the faint broil of certain
families, and so on to the single-handed play between individuals. At
all events, one-half of them were for peace, and two-thirds of them were
equally divided between peace and war.

“For three months after the accident which befell Rose Galh O’Hallaghan,
both factions had been tolerantly quiet--that is to say, they had no
general engagement. Some slight skirmishes certainly did take place on
market-nights, when the drop was in, and the spirits up; but in those
neither John nor Rose’s immediate families took any part. The fact was,
that John and Rose were on the evening of matrimony; the match had been
made--the day appointed, and every other necessary stipulation
ratified. Now, John was as fine a young man as you would meet in a day’s
traveling; and as for Rose, her name went far and near for beauty: and
with justice, for the sun never shone on a fairer, meeker, or modester
virgin than Rose Galh O’Hallaghan.

“It might be, indeed, that there were those on both sides who thought
that, if the marriage was obstructed, their own sons and daughters would
have a better chance. Rose had many admirers; they might have envied
John his happiness; many fathers, on the Other side, might have
wished their sons to succeed with Rose. Whether I am sinister in this
conjecture is more than I can say. I grant, indeed, that a great portion
of it is speculation on my part. The wedding-day, however, was arranged;
but, unfortunately, the fair-day of Knockimdowny occurred, in the
rotation of natural time, precisely one week before it. I know not from
what motive it proceeded, but the factions on both sides were never
known to make a more light-hearted preparation for battle. Cudgels
of all sorts and sizes (and some of them, to my own knowledge, great
beauties) were provided.

“I believe I may as well take this opportunity of saying that real
Irish cudgels must be root-growing, either oak, black-thorn, or
crab-tree--although crab-tree, by the way, is apt to fly. They should
not be too long--three feet and a few inches is an accommodating length.
They must be naturally top-heavy, and have around the end that is
to make acquaintance with the cranium three or four natural lumps,
calculated to divide the flesh in the natest manner, and to leave, if
possible, the smallest taste in life of pit in the skull. But if a good
root-growing _kippeen_ be light at the fighting-end, or possess not the
proper number of knobs, a hole, a few inches deep, is to be bored in
the end, which must be filled with melted lead. This gives it a
widow-and-orphan-making quality, a child-bereaving touch, altogether
very desirable. If, however, the top splits in the boring--which, in
awkward hands, is not uncommon--the defect may be remediated by putting
on an iron ferrule, and driving two or three strong nails into it,
simply to preserve it from flying off; not that an Irishman is ever at a
loss for weapons when in a fight, for so long as a scythe, flail, spade,
pitchfork, or stone is at hand, he feels quite contented with the lot
of war. No man, as they say of great statesmen, is more fertile in
expedients during a row; which, by the way, I take to be a good quality,
at all events.

“I remember the fair-day of Knockimdowny well; it has kept me from
griddle-bread and tough nutriment ever since. Hard fortune to Jack Roe
O’Hallaghan! No man had better teeth than I had till I met with him that
day. He fought stoutly on his own side; but he was ped then for the
same basting that fell to me, though not by my hands, if to get his jaw
dacently divided into three halves could be called a fair liquidation of
an old debt--it was equal to twenty shillings in the pound, any how.

“There had not been a larger fair in the town of Knockimdowny for years.
The day was dark and sunless, but sultry. On looking through the crowd,
I could see no man! without a cudgel; yet, what was strange, there was
no certainty of any sport. Several desultory skrimmages had locality,
but they I were altogether sequestered from the great factions of the
O’s. Except that it was pleasant and stirred one’s blood to look at
them, or occasioned the cudgels to be grasped more firmly, there was no
personal interest felt by any of us in them; they therefore began and
ended, here and there, through the fair, like mere flashes in the pan,
dying in their own smoke.

“The blood of every prolific nation is naturally hot; but when that hot
blood is inflamed by ardent spirits, it is not to be supposed that men
should be cool; and God he knows, there is not on the level surface of
this habitable globe, a nation that has been so thoroughly inflamed by
ardent spirits of all kinds as Ireland.

“Up till four o’clock that day, the factions were quiet. Several
relations on both sides had been invited to drink by John and Rose’s
families, for the purpose of establishing a good feeling between them.
But this was, after all, hardly to be expected, for they hated one
another with an ardency much too good-humored and buoyant; and, between
ourselves, to bring Paddy over a bottle is a very equivocal mode of
giving him an anti-cudgeling disposition. After the hour of four,
several of the factions were getting very friendly, which I knew at the
time to be a bad sign. Many of them nodded to each other, which I
knew to be a worse one; and some of them shook hands with the greatest
cordiality, which I no sooner saw than I slipped the knot of my cravat,
and held myself in preparation for the sport.

“I have often had occasion to remark--and few men, let me tell you, had
finer opportunities of doing so--the differential symptomatics between a
Party Fight, that is, a battle between Orangemen and Ribbon-men, and one
between two Roman Catholic Factions. There is something infinitely more
anxious, silent, and deadly, in the compressed vengeance, and the hope
of slaughter, which characterize a party fight, than is to be seen in
a battle between factions. The truth is, the enmity is not so deep
and well-grounded in the latter as in the former. The feeling is not
political nor religious between the factions; whereas, in the other, it
is both, which is a mighty great advantage; for when this is adjuncted
to an intense personal hatred, and a sense of wrong, probably arising
from a too intimate recollection of the leaded black thorn, or the
awkward death of some relative, by the musket or the bayonet, it is apt
to produce very purty fighting, and much respectable retribution.

“In a party fight, a prophetic sense of danger, hangs, as it were, over
the crowd--the very air is loaded with apprehension; and the vengeance
burst is proceeded by a close, thick darkness, almost sulphury, that is
more terrifical than the conflict itself, though dearly less dangerous
and fatal. The scowl of the opposing parties, the blanched cheeks, the
knit brows, and the grinding teeth, not pretermitting the deadly gleams
that shoot from their kindled eyes, are ornaments which a plain battle
between factions cannot boast, but which, notwithstanding, are very
suitable to the fierce and gloomy silence of that premeditated vengeance
which burns with such intensity in the heart, and scorches up the vitals
into such a thirst for blood. Not but that they come by different means
to the same conclusion; because it is the feeling, and not altogether
the manner of operation, that is different.

“Now a faction fight doesn’t resemble this at all at all. Paddy’s at
home here; all song, dance, good-humor, and affection. His cheek is
flushed with delight, which, indeed, may derive assistance from the
consciousness of having no bayonets or loaded carabines to contend with;
but anyhow, he’s at home--his eye is lit with real glee--he tosses his
hat in the air, in the height of mirth--and leaps, like a mounteback,
two yards from the ground. Then, with what a gracious dexterity he
brandishes his cudgel! what a joyous spirit is heard in his shout at the
face of a friend from another faction! His very ‘who!’ is contagious,
and would make a man, that had settled on running away, return and join
the sport with an appetite truly Irish. He is, in fact, while under the
influence of this heavenly afflatus, in love with every one, man, woman,
and child. If he meet his sweetheart, he will give her a kiss and a hug,
and that with double kindness, because he is on his way to thrash her
father or brother. It is the acumen of his enjoyment; and woe be to him
who will adventure to go between him and his amusements. To be sure,
skulls and bones are broken, and lives lost; but they are lost in
pleasant fighting--they are the consequences of the sport, the beauty
of which consists in breaking as many heads and necks as you can; and
certainly when a man enters into the spirit of any exercise, there is
nothing like elevating himself to the point of excellence. Then a man
ought never to be disheartened. If you lose this game, or get your
head good-humoredly beaten to pieces, why you may win another, or your
friends may mollify two or three skulls as a set-off to yours; but that
is nothing.

“When the evening became more advanced, maybe, considering the poor look
up there was for anything like decent sport--maybe, in the early part of
the day, it wasn’t the delightful sight to see the boys on each side of
the two great factions beginning to get frolicsome. Maybe the songs and
the shouting, when they began, hadn’t melody and music in them, any
how! People may talk about harmony; but what harmony is equal to that in
which five or six hundred men sing and shout, and leap and caper at each
other, as a prelude to neighborly fighting where they beat time upon
the drums of each other’s ears and heads with oak drumsticks? That’s an
Irishman’s music; and hard fortune to the _garran_* that wouldn’t have
friendship and kindness in him to join and play a stave along with them!
‘Whoo; your sowl! Hurroo! Success to our side! Hi for the O’Callaghans!
Where’s the blackguard to--,’ I beg pardon, decent reader; I forgot
myself for a moment, or rather I got new life in me, for I am nothing at
all at all for the last five months--a kind of nonentity I may say, ever
since that vagabond Burges occasioned me to pay a visit to my distant
relations, till my friends get that last matter of the collar-bone
settled.

     * Garran--a horse; but it is always used as meaning a bad
     one--one without mettle. When figuratively applied to a man,
     it means a coward

“The impulse which faction fighting gives to trade and business in
Ireland is truly surprising; whereas party fighting depreciates both. As
soon as it is perceived that a party fight is to be expected, all buying
and selling are nearly suspended for the day; and those who are not
_up_*, and even many who are, take themselves and their property home as
quickly as may be convenient. But in a faction fight, as soon as there
is any perspective of a row, depend upon it, there is quick work at
all kinds of negotiation; and truly there is nothing like brevity and
decision in buying and selling; for which reason, faction fighting,
at all events, if only for the sake of national prosperity, should be
encouraged and kept up.

     * Initiated into Whiteboyism

“Towards five o’clock, if a man was placed on an exalted station; so
that he could look at the crowd, and wasn’t able to fight, he could have
seen much that a man might envy him for. Here a hat went up, or maybe
a dozen of them; then followed a general huzza. On the other side, two
dozen caubeens sought the sky, like so many scaldy crows attempting
their own element for the first time, only they were not so black.
Then another shout, which was answered by that of their friends on the
opposite side; so that you would hardly know which side huzzaed loudest,
the blending of both was so truly symphonius. Now there was a shout for
the face of an O’Callaghan; this was prosecuted on the very heels
by another for the face of an O’Hallaghan. Immediately a man of the
O’Hallaghan side doffed his tattered frieze, and catching it by the
very extremity of the sleeve, drew it with a tact, known only by an
initiation of half a dozen street days, up the pavement after him.
On the instant, a blade from the O’Callaghan side peeled with equal
alacrity, and stretching his _home-made_ * at full length after him,
proceeded triumphantly up the street, to meet the other.

     * Irish frieze is mostly manufactured at home, which
     accounts for the expression here.

“Thunder-an-ages, what’s this for, at all, at all! I wish I hadn’t begun
to manuscript an account of it, any how; ‘tis like a hungry man dreaming
of a good dinner at a feast, and afterwards awaking and finding his
front ribs and back-bone on the point of union. Reader, is that a
black-thorn you carry--tut, where is my imagination bound for?----to
meet the other, I say.

“‘Where’s the rascally O’Callaghan that will place his toe or his
shillely on this frieze?’ ‘Is there no blackguard O’Hallaghan jist to
look crucked at the coat of an O’Callaghan, or say black’s the white of
his eye?’

“‘Troth and there is, Ned, avourneen, that same on the sod here.’

“‘Is that Barney?’

“‘The same, Ned, ma bouchal; and how is your mother’s son, Ned?’

“‘In good health at the present time, thank God and you; how is
yourself, Barney?’

“‘Can’t complain as time goes; only take this, any how, to mend your
health, ma bouchal.’ (Whack.)

“‘Success, Barney, and here’s at your sarvice, avick, not making little
of what I got, any way.’ (Crack.)

“About five o’clock on a May evening, in the fair of Knockimdowny, was
the ice thus broken, with all possible civility, by Ned and Barney. The
next moment a general rush took place towards the scene of action, and
ere you could bless yourself, Barney and Ned were both down, weltering
in their own and each other’s blood. I scarcely know, indeed, though
with a mighty respectable quota of experimentality myself, how to
describe what followed. For the first twenty minutes the general harmony
of this fine row might be set to music, according to a scale something
like this:--Whick whack--crick crack--whick whack--crick crack--&c,
&c, &o. ‘Here yer sowl--(crack)--there yer sowl--(whack). Whoo for
the O’Hallag-hans!’--(crack, crack, crack). ‘Hurroo for the
O’Callaghans!--(whack, whack, whack). The O’Callaghans for
ever!’--(whack). ‘The O’Hallaghans for ever!’--(crack). ‘Mur-ther!
murther!--(crick, crack)--foul! foul!--(whack, whack). Blood and
turf!--(whack, whick)--tunther-an-ouns’--(crack, crick). ‘Hurroo! my
darlings! handle your kip-peens--(crack, crack)--the O’Hallaghans are
going!’--(whack, whack).

“You are to suppose them, here to have been at it for about half an
hour.

“Whack, crack--‘oh--oh--oh! have mercy upon me, boys--(crack--a shriek
of murther! murther--crack, crack, whack)--my life--my life--(crack,
crack--whack, whack)--oh! for the sake of the living Father!--for the
sake of my wife and childher, Ned Hallaghan, spare my life.’

“‘So we will, but take this, any how’--(whack, crack, whack, crack).

“‘Oh! for the love of. God, don’t kill--(whack, crack, whack).
Oh!’--(crack, crack, whack--dies).

“‘Huzza! huzza! huzza!’ from the O’Hallaghans. ‘Bravo, boys! there’s one
of them done for: whoo! my darlings! hurroo! the O’Hallaghans for ever!’

“The scene now changes to the O’Callaghan side.

“‘Jack--oh, Jack, avourneen--hell to their sowls for murdherers--Paddy’s
killed--his skull’s smashed! Revinge, boys, Paddy O’Callaghan’s killed!
On with you, O’Callaghans--on with you--on with you, Paddy O’Callaghan’s
murdhered--take to the stones--that’s it--keep it up, down with: him!
Success!--he’s the bloody villain that: didn’t show him marcy--that’s
it. Tunder-an-ouns, is it laving him that way you are afther--let me at
him!’

“‘Here’s a stone, Tom!’

“‘No, no, this stick has the lead in it. It’ll do him, never fear!’

“‘Let him alone, Barney, he’s got enough.’

“‘By the powdhers, it’s myself that won’t: didn’t he kill
Paddy?--(crack, crack). Take that, you murdhering thief!’--(whack,
whack).

“‘Oh!--(whack, crack)--my head--I’m killed--I’m’--(crack--kicks the
bucket).

“‘Now, your sowl, that does you, any way--(crack,
whack)--hurro!--huzza!--huzza!--Man for man, boys--an O’Hallaghan’s
done for--whoo! for our side--tol-deroll, folderoll, tow, row,
row--huzza!--fol-deroll, fol-deroll, tow, row, row, huzza for the
O’Callaghans!’

“From this moment the battle became delightful; it was now pelt and welt
on both sides, but many of the kippeens were broken: many of the boys
had their fighting arms disabled by a dislocation, or bit of fracture,
and those weren’t equal to more than doing a little upon such as were
down.

“In the midst of the din, such a dialogue as this might be heard:

“‘Larry, you’re after being done for, for this day.’ (Whack, crack.)

“‘Only an eye gone--is that Mickey?’ (whick, whack, crick, crack.)

“‘That’s it, my darlings!--you may say that, Larry--‘tis my mother’s
son that’s in it--(crack, crack,--a general huzza.): (Mickey and
Larry) huzza! huzza! huzza for the O’Hallaghans! What have you got,
Larry?--(crack, crack).

“‘Only the bone of my arm, God be praised for it, very purtily snapt
across!’ (whack, whack).

“‘Is that all? Well, some people have luck!’--(crack, crack, crack).

“‘Why I’ve no reason to complain, thank God--(whack, crack!)--purty play
that, any way--Paddy O’Callaghan’s settled--did you hear it?--(whack,
whack, another shout)--That’s it boys--handle the shilleleys!--Success
O’Hallaghans--down with the bloody O’Callaghans!’

“‘I did hear it: so is Jem O’Hallaghan--(crack, whack, whack,
crack)--you’re not able to get up, I see--tare-an-ounty, isn’t it a
pleasure to hear that play?--What ails you?’

“‘Oh, Larry, I’m in great pain, and getting very weak,
entirely’--(faints).

“‘Faix, and he’s settled too, I’m thinking.’

“‘Oh, murdher, my arm!’ (One of the O’Callaghans attacks him--crack,
crack)--

“‘Take that, you vagabone!’--(whack, whack).

“’ Murdher, murdher, is it strikin’ a down man you’re after?--foul,
foul, and my arm broke!’--(crack, crack).

“‘Take that, with what you got before, and it’ll ase you, maybe.’

“(A party of the O’Hallaghans attack the man who is beating him).

“‘Murdher, murdher!’--(crack, whack, whack, crack, crack, whack).

“‘Lay on him, your sowls to pirdition--lay on him, hot and heavy--give
it to him! He sthruck me and me down wid my broken arm!’

“‘Foul, ye thieves of the world!--(from the O’Callaghan)--foul! five
against one--give me fair play!--(crack, crack, crack)--Oh!--(whack)
Oh, oh, oh!’--(falls senseless, covered with blood).

“‘Ha, hell’s cure to you, you bloody thief; you didn’t spare me with
my arm broke’--(Another general shout.) ‘Bad end to it, isn’t it a poor
case entirely, that I can’t even throw up my caubeen, let alone join in
the diversion.’

“Both parties now rallied, and ranged themselves along the street,
exhibiting a firm phalanx, wedged close against each other, almost foot
to foot. The mass was thick and dense, and the tug of conflict stiff,
wild and savage. Much natural skill and dexterity were displayed in
their mutual efforts to preserve their respective ranks unbroken, and as
the sallies and charges were made on both sides, the temporary rash, the
indentation of the multitudinous body, and the rebound into its original
position, gave an undulating appearance to the compact mass--reeking,
dragging, groaning, and buzzing as it was, that resembled the serpentine
motion of a rushing water-spout in the clouds.

“The women now began to take part with their brothers and sweethearts.
Those who had no bachelors among the opposite factions, fought along
with their brothers; others did not scruple even to assist in giving
their enamored swains the father of a good beating. Many, however, were
more faithful to love than to natural affection, and these sallied out,
like heroines, under the banners of their sweethearts, fighting with
amazing prowess against their friends and relations; nor was it at all
extraordinary to see two sisters engaged on opposite sides--perhaps
tearing each other as, with dishevelled hair, they screamed with a fury
that was truly exemplary. Indeed it is no untruth to assert that the
women do much valuable execution. Their manner of fighting is this--as
soon as the fair one decides upon taking a part in the row, she
instantly takes off her apron or her stocking, stoops down, and lifting
the first four pounder she can get, puts it in the corner of her apron,
or the foot of her stocking, if it has a foot, and marching into the
scene of action, lays about her right and left. Upon my credibility,
they are extremely useful and handy, and can give mighty nate
knockdowns--inasmuch as no guard that a man is acquainted with can ward
off their blows. Nay, what is more, it often happens, when a son-in-law
is in a faction against his father-in-law and his wife’s people
generally, that if he and his wife’s brother meet, the wife will clink
him with the _pet_ in her apron, downing her own husband with great
skill, for it is not always that marriage extinguishes the hatred of
factions; and very often ‘tis the brother that is humiliated.

“Up to the death of these two men, John O’Callaghan and Rose’s father,
together with a large party of their friends on both sides, were
drinking in a public-house, determined to take no portion in the fight,
at all at all. Poor Rose, when she heard the shouting and terrible
strokes, got as pale as death, and sat close to John, whose hand she
captured hers, beseeching him, and looking up in his face with the most
imploring sincerity as she spoke, not to go out among them; the tears
falling all the time from her fine eyes, the mellow flashes of which,
when John’s pleasantry in soothing her would seduce a smile, went into
his very heart. But when, on looking out of the window where they sat,
two of the opposing factions heard that a man on each side was killed;
and when on ascertaining the names of the individuals, and of those who
murdered them, it turned out that one of the murdered men was brother
to a person in the room, and his murderer uncle to one of those in the
window, it was not in the power of man or woman to keep them asunder,
particularly as they were all rather advanced in liquor. In an instant
the friends of the murdered man made a rush at the window, before any
pacifiers had time to get between them, and catching the nephew of him
who had committed the murder, hurled him head-foremost upon the stone
pavement, where his skull was dashed to pieces, and his brains scattered
about the flags!

“A general attack instantly took place in the room, between the two
factions; but the apartment was too low and crowded to permit of proper
fighting, so they rushed out to the street, shouting and. yelling, as
they do when the battle comes to the real point of doing business. As
soon as it was seen that the heads of the O’Callaghan’s and O’Hallaghans
were at work as well as the rest, the fight was recommenced with
retrebled spirit; but when the mutilated body of the man who had been
flung from the window, was observed lying in the pool of his own proper
brains and blood, such a cry arose among his friends, as would cake
(* harden) the vital fluid in the veins of any one not a party in
the quarrel. Now was the work--the moment of interest--men and women
groaning, staggering, and lying insensible; others shouting, leaping,
and huzzaing; some singing, and not a few able-bodied spalpeens
blurting, like over-grown children, on seeing their own blood; many
raging and roaring about like bulls;--all this formed such a group as a
faction fight, and nothing else, could represent.

“The battle now blazed out afresh; and all kinds of instruments were
pressed into I the service. Some got flails, some spades, some shovels,
and one man got his hands upon a scythe, with which, unquestionably,
he would have taken more lives than one; but, very fortunately, as he
sallied out to join the crowd, he was politely visited in the back of
the head by a brick-bat, which had a mighty convincing way with it of
giving him a peaceable disposition, for he instantly lay down, and did
not seem at all anxious as to the result of the battle. The O’Hallaghans
were now compelled to give way, owing principally to the introvention of
John O’Ohallaghan, who, although he was as good as sworn to take no part
in the contest, was compelled to fight merely to protect himself. But,
blood-and-turf! when he did begin, he was dreadful. As soon as his party
saw him engaged, they took fresh courage, and in a short time made the
O’Hallaghan’s retreat up the church-yard. I never saw anything equal to
John; he absolutely sent them down in dozens; and when a man would give
him any inconvenience with the stick, he would down him with the fist,
for right and left were all alike to him. Poor Rose’s brother and he
met, both roused like two lions; but when John saw who it was, he held
back his hand:--

“‘No, Tom,’ says he, ‘I’ll not strike you, for Rose’s sake. I’m not
fighting through ill will to you or your family; so take another
direction, for I can’t strike you.’

“The blood, however, was unfortunately up in Tom.

“‘We’ll decide it now,’ said he, ‘I’m as good a man as you, O’Callaghan:
and let me whisper this in your ears--you’ll never warm the one bed
with Rose, while’s God’s in heaven--it’s past that now--there can be I
nothing but blood between us!’

“At this juncture two of the O’Callaghans ran with their shillelaghs up,
to beat down Tom on the spot.

“‘Stop, boys!’ said John, ‘you mustn’t touch him; he had no hand in the
quarrel. Go, boys, if you respect me; lave him to myself.’

“The boys withdrew to another part of the fight; and the next instant
Tom struck the very man that interfered to save him, across the temple,
and cut him severely. John put his hand up and staggered.

“‘I’m sorry for this,’ he observed; ‘but it’s now self-defence with me;’
and at the same moment, with one blow, he left Tom O’Hallaghan stretched
insensible on the street.

“On the O’Hallaghans being driven to the church-yard, they were at a
mighty great inconvenience for weapons. Most of them had lost their
sticks, it being a usage in fights of this kind to twist the cudgels
from the grasp of the beaten men, to prevent them from rallying. They
soon, however, furnished themselves with the best they could find,
videlicet, the skull, leg, thigh, and arm bones, which they found lying
about the grave-yard. This was a new species of weapon, for which the
majority of the O’Callaghans were scarcely prepared. Out they sallied in
a body--some with these, others with stones, and making fierce assault
upon their enemies, absolutely druv then--not so much by the damage they
we’re doing, as by the alarm and terror which these unexpected species
of missiles excited. At this moment, notwithstanding the fatality that
had taken place, nothing could be more truly comical and facetious
than the appearance of the field of battle. Skulls were flying in every
direction--so thick, indeed, that it might with truth be assevervated,
that many who were petrified in the dust, had their skulls broken in
this great battle between the factions.--God help poor Ireland! when
its inhabitants are so pugnacious, that even the grave is no security
against getting their crowns cracked, and their bones fractured! Well,
any how, skulls and bones flew in every direction--stones and brick-bats
were also put in motion; spades, shovels, loaded whips, pot-sticks,
churn-staffs, flails, and all kinds of available weapons were in hot
employment.

“But, perhaps, there was nothing more-truly felicitous or original in
its way than the mode of warfare adopted by little Neal Malone, who was
tailor for the O’Callaghan side: for every tradesman is obliged to fight
on behalf of his own faction. Big Frank Farrell, the miller, being
on the O’Hallaghan side, had been sent for, and came up from his mill
behind the town, quite fresh. He was never what could be called a good
man,* though it was said that he could lift ten hundred weight. He
puffed forward with a great cudgel, determined to commit slaughter
out of the face, and the first man he met was the weeshy fraction of
a tailor, as nimble as a hare. He immediately attacked him, and would
probably have taken his measure for life had not the tailor’s activity
protected him. Farrell was in a rage, and Neal, taking advantage of his
blind fury, slipped round him, and, with a short run, sprung upon the
miller’s back, and planted, a foot upon the threshold of each coat
pocket, holding by the mealy collar of his waistcoat. In this position
he belabored the miller’s face and eyes with his little hard fist to
such purpose, that he had him in the course of a few minutes nearly
as blind as a mill-horse. The’ miller roared for assistance, but the
pell-mell was going on too warmly for his cries to be available. In
fact, he resembled an elephant with a monkey on his back.

     * A brave man. He was a man of huge size and prodigious
     strength, and died in consequence of an injury he received
     in lifting one of the cathedral bells at Clogher, which is
     said to be ten hundredweight.

“‘How do you like that, Farrell?’ Neal would say, giving him a
cuff--‘and that, and that; but that is best of all. Take it again,
gudgeon (two cuffs more)--here’s grist for you (half a dozen
additional)--hard fortune to you! (crack, crack.) What! going to lie
down!--by all that’s terrible, if you do, I’ll annigulate* you! Here’s a
dhuragh,** (another half dozen)--long measure, you savage!--the baker’s
dozen, you baste!--there’s five-an’-twenty to the score, Sampson! and
one or two in’ (crack, whack).

     * Annihilate--Many of the jawbreakers--and this was one in a
     double sense--used by the hedge-schoolmasters, are scattered
     among the people, by whom they were so twisted that it would
     be extremely difficult to recognize them.

     ** Dhuragh--An additional portion of anything thrown in from
     a spirit of generosity, after the Measure agreed on is
     given. When the miller, for instance, receives his toll, the
     country-people usually throw in several handfuls of meal as
     a Dhuragh.

“‘Oh! murther sheery!’ shouted the miller. ‘Murther-an-age, I’m kilt!
Foul play!--foul play!’

“‘You lie, big Nebuchodonosor! it’s not--this is all fair play, you
big baste! Fair play, Sampson!--by the same a-token, here’s to jog your
memory that it’s the Fair day of Knockimdowny! Irish Fair play, you
whale! But I’ll whale you’ (crack, crack, whack).

“‘Oh! oh!’ shouted the miller.

“‘Oh! oh! is it? Oh, if I had my scissors here till I’d clip your ears
off--wouldn’t I be the happy man, any how, you swab, you?’ (whack,
whack, crack).

“‘Murther! murther! murther!’ shouted the miller. ‘Is there no help?’

“‘Help, is it?--you may say that (crack crack): there’s a trifle--a
small taste in the milling style, you know; and here goes to dislodge
a grinder. Did ye ever hear of the tailor on horseback, Sampson? eh?
(whack, whack). Did you ever expect to see a tailor on horseback of
yourself, you baste? (crack). I tell you, if you offer to lie down, I’ll
annigulate you out o’ the face.’

“Never, indeed, was a miller before or since so well dusted; and, I dare
say, Neal would have rode him long enough, but for an O’Hallaghan, who
had gone into one of the houses to procure a weapon. This man was nearly
as original in his choice of one as the tailor in the position which he
selected for beating the miller. On entering the kitchen, he found
that he had been anticipated: there was neither tongs, poker, nor
churn-staff, nor, in fact, anything wherewith he could assault his
enemies; all had been carried off by others. There was, however, a
goose, in the action of being roasted on a spit at the fire: this
was enough; Honest O’Hallaghan saw nothing but the spit, which he
accordingly seized, goose and all, making the best of his way, so armed,
to the scene of battle. He just came out of an entry as the miller was
once more roaring for assistance, and, to a dead certainty, would have
spitted the tailor like a cook-sparrow against the miller’s carcase, had
not his activity once more saved him. Unluckily, the unfortunate miller
got the thrust behind which was intended for Neal, and roared like a
bull. He was beginning to shout ‘Foul play!’ again, when, on turning
round, he perceived that the thrust had not been intended for him, but
for the tailor.

“‘Give me that spit,’ said he; ‘by all the mills that ever were turned,
I’ll spit the tailor this blessed minute beside the goose, and we’ll
roast them both together.’

“The other refused to part with the spit, but the miller seizing the
goose, flung it with all his force after the tailor, who stooped,
however, and avoided the blow.

“‘No man has a better right to the goose than the tailor,’ said Neal, as
he took it up, and, disappearing, neither he nor the goose could be seen
for the remainder of the day.

“The battle was now somewhat abated. Skulls, and bones, and bricks, and
stones, were, however, still flying; so that it might be truly said,
the bones of contention were numerous. The streets presented a woeful
spectacle: men were lying with their bones broken--others, though not so
seriously injured, lappered in their blood--some were crawling up, but
were instantly knocked down by their enemies--some were leaning against
the walls, or groping their way silently along them, endeavoring to
escape observation, lest they might be smashed down and altogether
murdered. Wives were sitting with the bloody heads of their husbands in
their laps, tearing their hair, weeping and cursing, in all the gall of
wrath, those who left them in such a state. Daughters performed the
said offices to their fathers, and sisters to their brothers; not
pretermitting those who did not neglect their broken-pated bachelors to
whom they paid equal attention. Yet was the scene not without abundance
of mirth. Many a hat was thrown up by the O’Callaghan side, who
certainly gained the day. Many a song was raised by those who tottered
about with trickling sconces, half drunk with whiskey, and half stupid
with beating. Many a ‘whoo,’ and ‘hurroo,’ and ‘huzza,’ was sent forth
by the triumphanters; but truth to tell, they were miserably feeble and
faint, compared to what they had been in the beginning of the amusement;
sufficiently evincing that, although they might boast of the name
of victory, they had got a bellyful of beating; still there was hard
fighting.

“I mentioned, some time ago, that a man had adopted a scythe. I wish
from my heart there had been no such bloody instrument there that day;
but truth must be told. John O’Callaghan was now engaged against a set
of the other O’s, who had rallied for the third time, and attacked him
and his party. Another brother of Rose Galh’s was in this engagement,
and him did John O’Callaghan not only knock down, but cut desperately
across the temple. A man, stripped, and covered with blood and dust,
at that moment made his appearance, his hand bearing the blade of the
aforesaid scythe. His approach was at once furious and rapid, and I
may as well add, fatal; for before John O’Callaghan had time to be
forewarned of his danger, he was cut down, the artery of his neck laid
open, and he died without a groan. It was truly dreadful, even to
the oldest fighter present, to see the strong rush of red blood that
curvated about his neck, until it gurgled, gurgled, gurgled, and
lappered, and bubbled out, ending in small red spouts, blackening and
blackening, as they became fainter and more faint. At this criticality,
every eye was turned from the corpse to the murderer; but he had been
instantly struck down, and a female, with a large stone in her apron,
stood over him, her arms stretched out, her face horribly distorted with
agony, and her eyes turned backwards, as it were, into her head. In a
few seconds she fell into strong convulsions, and was immediately taken
away. Alas! alas! it was Rose Galh; and when we looked at the man she
had struck down, he was found to be her brother! flesh of her flesh, and
blood of her blood! On examining him more closely, we discovered that
his under-jaw hung loose, that his limbs were supple; we tried to make
him speak, but in vain--he too was a corpse.

“The fact was, that in consequence of his being stripped, and covered by
so much blood and dust, she know him not; and, impelled by her feelings
to avenge herself on the murderer of her lover, to whom she doubly owed
her life, she struck him a deadly blow, without knowing him to be her
brother. The shock produced by seeing her lover murdered, and the horror
of finding that she herself, in avenging him, had taken her brother’s
life, was too much for a heart so tender as hers. On recovering from her
convulsions, her senses were found to be gone for ever! Poor girl! she
is still living; but from that moment to this, she has never opened her
lips to mortal. She is, indeed, a fair ruin, but silent, melancholy, and
beautiful as the moon in the summer heaven. Poor Rose Galh! you and many
a mother, and father, and wife, and orphan, have had reason to maledict
the _bloody Battles of the Factions_.

“With regard to my grandfather, he says that he didn’t see purtier
fighting within his own memory; not since the fight between himself and
Big Mucklemurray took place in the same town. But, to do him justice, he
condemns the scythe and every other weapon except the cudgels; because,
he says, that if they continue to be resorted to, nate fighting will be
altogether forgotten in the country.”

[It was the original intention of the author to have made every man in
the humble group about Ned M’Keown’s hearth narrate a story illustrating
Irish life, feeling, and manners; but on looking into the matter more
closely, he had reason to think that such a plan, however agreeable
for a time, would ultimately narrow the sphere of his work, and
perhaps fatigue the reader by a superfluity of Irish dialogue and its
peculiarities of phraseology. He resolved therefore, at the close of
the _Battle of the Factions_, to abandon his original design, and leave
himself more room for description and observation. ]





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